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Sh.eltX^.h.h.^ VI 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 




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}!6en¥ral delIWryI 




KEMMLER 


Or, the fatal CHAIR 

By “HAWKSHAW.”^^ 




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Globe Detective Series. Vol. I, No, 21. October, 1890. Bi-Monthly. Sub- 
scription, 88.00. Entered at the Post Office, Chicago, 111., 
as second-class matter. 


KEMMLEE; 

OR, 


THE FATAL CHAIR 


A THRILLING DETECTIVE STORY 




BT 




‘‘HAWKSHAW.’’ 






Authob op “Blinkt Mokoan,” “Shadowed prom Europe,” Etc. 






Chicago: 

THE EAGLE PUBLISHING 

1890 . 






Copyright, 1890, by The Eagle Publishing Co., Chicago. 


Kemmler. 


KEMMLER; 

OR, 

THE FATAL CHAIR. 


CHAPTER I. 

PAUL PINKHAM, THE PHILADELPHIA DETECT- 
IVE — KEMMLER’ 8 ANTECEDENTS. 

“ I wonder who Curley Crane has got hold 
of now?” 

The words were uttered by a tall, spare 
man, with a thin, cleanly shaven face, and 
dressed in a suit of sober black, as he entered 
the general office at police headquarters in 
Buffalo, early one pleasant summer after- 
noon. 

“ Bedad, thin, oi’m sorry for him, whoever 
it is, an’ it sthrikes me, Gil Gridley, that if 
yez didn’t warn him av his danger ye deserve 
to be reprimanded for neglect av duty.” 

‘‘I’ve been thinking myself, Mickey, that 
I ought, at least, to have kept my eye on the 
pair, and so been ready to interfere if I found 
that Curley was up to mischief.” 

“ If yez found he war up to mischief, is it ? 


6 kemmlee; oe, the fatal chaie. 

Shur, man, don’t ye 'know lie war np to mis- 
chief? Ain’t it always mischief he’s up to, 
an’ nothin’ else at all in loif e? ’ ’ 

‘‘You are pretty nearly right there,' 
Mickey, and I’m very sorry I didn’t follow 
them, though, indeed, I should have done so 
had I not been in a hurry to reach the office 
on account of an important matter of busi- 
ness.” 

“An important matter av business, is it! 
Phat can it be; oi’d loike t’ know, that’s 
more important than circumventin’ th’ divil- 
ment av Curley Crane? Bedad, Gil, as shur 
as me name is Moickey Kilcullen, oi’m 
ashamed av yez. Ye disgrace yer t’acher, 
an’ afther you oi’ll niver thry to make a de- 
tective again.” 

“Is this Mr. Gilbert Gridley, the detect- 
ive?” 

Both Gridley and Kilcullen started a little. 
The former did not know there was a stranger 
in the room, and the latter, as was quite nat- 
ural for him, had entirely forgotten the fact. 

They turned, and saw the speaker advanc- 
ing from a window recess, where he had been 
quietly seated for the past half-hour, waiting 
for an interview with the most renowned de- 
tective in all Western New York. ’ i 

^‘I.am Gilbert Gridley, yes,” said that in- 


kemmler’ s antecedents. 


7 


dividual, taking a step forward to meet him. 
“Did you wish to speak with me? ” 

“Yes, though not exactly on business. 
Owing to an accidental meeting, however, I 
can put you up to something that may lead 
to business by and by. My name is Paul 
Pinkham.” 

“Paul Pinkham! What! of Philadel- 
phia? But of course, there couldn^t be two 
Paul Pinkhams, the thing’s impossible!” 

“Come, come, Gridley, no flattery; I’ve 
been too long in the profession to care for 
that.” 

“I didn’t intend anything of the kind, I 
assure you. But permit me to introduce 
my associate and assistant, Mr. Kilcullen. 
Mickey, it’s the great Philadelphia detective, 
Paul Pinkham.” 

“ Shur, thin, oi heard yez say as much as 
that before. Mr. Pinkham, oi’m deloighted 
to see yez, an’ oi hope ye’ll think well av me 
pupil, Gil Gridley, here. It’s much pains 
oi’ve taken with him, but th’ good Lord 
knows oi’m discouraged sometimes.” 

“ Don’t be discouraged, I beg, Mr, Kilcul- 
len,” smiled Pinkham; “for really I think 
you have a very promising pupil; indeed, I 
shouldn’t wonder if he did great credit to 
his teacher yet.” 


8 kemmlee; oe, the fatal ohaie. 

“Bedad, sor, oi’in glad to hear you say 
so.” 

“Let us go into the next room, where we 
can be more secluded and comfortable,” sug- 
gested Gridley, and crossing to a heavy oak 
door, he threw it open for the others to enter 
before him. 

When they were seated, and had lighted 
the cigars Gridley speedily provided. Pink- 
ham turned to him and said — 

“I was a little interested in what you were 
saying about the fellow you called Curley 
Crane, and if you will describe him to me, I 
may tell you why.” 

“Curley is a hard man to describe,” said 
Gridley, thoughtfully. “He’s one of those 
men you’d hardly take for a crook, and yet 
there’s something about him that tells you 
at once he’s not a saint.” 

“Exactly, I understand.” 

“He’s tall and handsome,” Gridley went 
on, “ and, I should say, is about twenty-six 
years old.” 

“ Wears a light suit and a silk hat, don’t 
he ? ” asked Pinkham. 

“Yes — at least that’s what he had on to- 
day.” 

“Bright dancing eyes and chestnut hair, 
which curls a little? ” 


kemmler’s antecedents. 


9 


‘‘Why, yes, that’s the man to a dot. 
You’ve seen him then? ” 

“Bed ad, he has,” nodded Kilcullen. 

“ Yes, I think I’ve seen him,” assented the 
Philadelphia detective. “And now I want 
to tell you about his companion; indeed, it 
was my accidentally meeting this pair that 
led me to hint that you might have business 
by and by.” 

“Ha ! then you know his companion?” 

“Yes, I know a good deal about him, and 
what I know I want to tell you.” 

“ Is he a Philadelphia man? ” 

“ Yes, he was born at No. 2531 North Sec- 
ond Street, in Philadelphia, on the ninth day 
of May, 1860.” 

“You’ve got it down fine, Mr. Pinkham.” 

“ Yes, somehow I had the curiosity to look 
up the fellow’s record. The fact is, I believe 
the time is coming when he will do some- 
thing — ^blindly perhaps — ^that will electrify 
the world.” 

“He don’t look it. I never saw a duller 
countenance, or more sleepy-looking eyes.” 

“I said he might do it blindly^ you 
know.” 

“Ah, true. He’s a German, isn’t he?” 

“Yes — that is, both his parents are Ger- 
man born.” 


10 kemmler; or, the fatal chair. 

‘‘Does he know anything at all? For if 
he does his looks cruelly belie him.’’ 

“ Really, I can’t say that his looks do him 
any great wrong. When he was a little child 
he went to a German school, and he could 
once read German a little, but he can not 
read at all now.” 

“Knows nothing of religion, I suppose?” 

“His parents were German Lutherans, and 
his father would occasionally take him to 
church, but I questioned him once, just be- 
fore he left Philadelphia, and he can not 
remember attending a service since he was 
ten years of age. I doubt very much if he 
has, indeed.” 

“ His parents were very wrong then. Had 
they a large family? ’ ’ 

“Quite large. There were eleven children 
in all, five of whom were boys. Only one 
brother, Henry, is now living, however.” 

“ Is he in Philadelphia? ” 

“Yes; and three sisters are living there, 
too.” 

“An’ phat is th’ feller’s name, Misther 
Pinkham? Shur, yez haven’t thold us that 
yet,” said Kilcullen, who had been watching 
for a chance to take part in the conversa- 
tion. 

“Ah, to be sure,” nodded the Philadelphia 


KEMMLEE’S AISTTECEDEOTS. 11 

detective. “ His name is William Kemmler. 
I should have mentioned it before.” 

“Is it a loafer, he is? or has he been 
brought up to some honest thrade? ” 

“He never learned a trade, but managed 
to acquire some knowledge of butchering by 
assisting his father.” 

“An’ has he been up to some divilment 
that he left Philadelphy, an’ came out here? ” 

“Mr. Kilcullen, you can not think how 
much I admire your direct way of putting 
things. That was exactly what I was coming 
to. After he had helped his father for some 
time he became a regular butcher, in a way, 
and for several years, among his other cus- 
tomers, sold meat and vegetables to a woman 
named Tillie Zeigler. She was the wife of a 
certain Fred Zeigler, whom I am afraid she 
didn’t love very much and neglected sadly.” 

“ Shur, sor, oi think oi know phat you’re 
cornin’ to.” 

“Yes, the sequel is bound to follow in such 
cases; but it’s not always quite so romantic 
or cruel as in this.” 

“Ah, how is that?” asked Gridley. 

“Why, some fourteen or fifteen months 
ago he met a very pretty young woman 
named Ida Porter, over in Camden, New 
Jersey, which, as you may remember, is 


12 kemmler; or, the fatal chair. 

just across the river from Philadelphia, and 
is really as much a suburb of that city as 
Jersey City is of New York.’’ 

“Yes, oi know,” exclaimed Kilcullen, im- 
patiently; “but phat of th’ girl — Ida Porter, 
ye said was her name^’ 

“Why, the scoundrel made love to her 
and married her.” 

“An’ phat th’ divil wrong was there in 
that, thin?” 

“Wrong? Why, man, just two days after 
the ceremony he left her and ran away with 
Tillie Zeigler; and now I find the two are lo- 
cated here.” 

“Oh, th’ dhirty divil, oi wish oi had th’ 
d’alin’ with him, oi’d give him as sound 
a thrashin’ as iver a man had yet.” 

“He deserves it, no doubt; and I believe 
his punishment is sure to come.” 

“Yes,” said Gridley, thoughtfully, “and 
it strikes me that the woman who left her 
husband for this man ought not to get off 
unscathed.” 

“She will not, you may be sure. Her 
time vdll come. Perhaps she is tho more 
wicked of the two.” 

“And now, gentlemen,” he continued, 
rousing himself a little, “as I have called 
your attention to this pair, and as you have 


kemmler’s antecedents. 


13 


learned what sort of company Kemmler is in, 
I will let the matter drop, feeling assured 
that you will not lose sight of them in the 
future.” 

“No,” said Gridley, slowly, “I shall keep 
an eye on William Kemmler, and I may 
think it’ s best before long to pay Mrs. Zeig- 
ler a visit.” 

“Bedad, thin, ye’d betther not; ye’d bet- 
ther lave th’ faymale to me. Ye know very 
well, Gilbert, me b’y, that oi’m betther cal- 
culated to luk afther her than yersilf.” 

“All right, Mickey, you may make the 
call on the lady; I’m quite willing.” 

“An’ so am oi, shur. An’ now let’s show 
our Philadelphy fri’nd thro’ th’ buildin’. 
Bedad, oi’m thinkin’ he don’t see th’ loikes 
at home.” 

“I shall be very happy,” said Pinkham, 
with a smile, as he thought of the magnifi- 
cent municipal building of his own city, the 
equal of which can hardly be found on this 
continent. 

“Come, thin,” said KilcuUen, cordially, 
and they went out together. 

Later Gridley and Paul Pinkham spent 
considerable time together, and before the 
day was over had become fast friends. That 
same evening the latter returned to Phila- 


14 kemmler; or, the fatal chair. 

delpMa; but before going he promised Grid- 
ley to find out all he could, additional, rela- 
tive to Kemmler’ s antecedents, and to keep 
him thoroughly posted, and the Buffalo de- 
tective agreed to return the compliment. 

Some weeks now passed, but Gridley and 
Kilcullen neither saw nor heard anything 
more of Kemmler, nor of his dangerous 
friend, Curley Crane. 

But they were soon to hear of the last- 
named under peculiar circumstances, and the 
time was coming when they were to hear of 
the other also. 


CHAPTER II. 

OLAEA CLINTON — DETECTIVE GEIDLEY EE- 
CEIVES A CHALLENGE. 

As Gridley entered the outer room of the 
detective bureau one stormy afternoon, and 
was passing on to the private office of the 
chief, he noticed a very pretty young woman 
seated by a window, with a child in her arms. 

She turned eagerly at the sound of the 
opening and closing door, and the detective 
involuntarily paused to regard-her more at- 
tentively. 

‘‘This is Mr. Gridley,” said an official, 
looking up from his desk. Then to the de- 
tective he added: “ This lady has been wait- 
ing for some time to see you.” 

Gridley crossed over to the window, and 
seating himself near the stranger, said: 

“You wish to see me on official business, I 
suppose?” 

“Yes, sir,” she answered, “and — and I 
am so glad you have come, for I am so anx- 
ious and unhappy.” 

While she was speaking, the detective was 
regarding her with an earnest scrutiny. 


16 kemmlee; or, the fatal chair. 

Her exact status in tlie social scale puzzled 
him considerably. She was certainly beauti- 
ful enough for the finest lady in the State, 
and modest enough for a model of virtue; 
and her dress, though not rich, was fault- 
lessly neat and becoming. 

Gridley was inclined to set her down as 
an artist or teacher, and her correct speech 
appeared to confirm the impression, but after 
she had given her name as Clara Clinton he 
discovered that she had been a companion to 
a rich and feeble old lady in the western part 
of the city. 

Clara was very beautiful; indeed, it is im- 
possible to convey any idea of the sweet- 
ness of her face or the pensive softness of 
her eyes, which roused the curiosity of the 
detective, and his sympathy, too, more than 
if she had been loaded with silks, and satins, 
and jewelry. For a time he could not speak; 
he could only sit, and gaze, and wonder what 
the misfortune was that had brought her to 
him. 

“You are anxious and unhappy,” he re-^ 
peated at last. ‘ ‘ What is the trouble? What 
can I do for you? ” 

“1 want you to find my husband,” she 
said, with the most perfect confidence, as if 
Gridley had only to touch a few wires and 


CLARA CLINTOJSr. 


17 


tnrn him out before hei. ‘‘My friends all 
say that I have been deceived, and that I will 
never see him again; but I can’t believe that 
any man could be so base, far less he.” 

There was such beaming faith and trust in 
her eyes, while she was speaking, that the de- 
tective hesitated to crush her hopes. 

“Don’t expect too much of any of us — the 
angels are in heaven,” he at last answered, 
somewhat dryly, feeling sure that it was 
another case of woman’s trust and man’s 
deceiving. ‘ ‘ Has he run away from you^ ’ ’ 

“Yes,” and tears crowded into the beau- 
tiful eyes, and she bent down to kiss the 
infant in her lap. 

“Why?” 

“ He said it was because I had deceived and 
cheated him, that he thought I had more 
money; but he must have said that in anger, 
and without giving heed to his words. I had 
saved nearly seven hundred dollars, and it is 
almost all gone, so he got into a passion and 
left me.” 

“Strange! Had he any occupation or 
trade? ” 

“I think .he is a traveling salesman, but 
he has not done much since we were mar- 
ried.” 

“Well, you will have to mak^ a regular 
2 


18 kemmlee; oe, the fatal chaie. 

complaint to tlie authorities, and they will 
instruct us to pursue and bring back your 
husband. You have your marriage certifi- 
cate, of course?” 

“Oh, no; is that necessary?” she asked, 
with a start of alarm. “That is what my 
friends said. You see it was a private mar- 
riage.” 

“ What do you mean?” 

“We went to the house of a relative of 
his, and there a strange minister married 
us.” 

“Oh, indeed! Well, that’s all right 
enough, if the certificate is on record and 
you have a copy.” 

“But I haven’t a copy,” she said, now 
deathly pale and more intensely beautiful 
than ever. “He said he had procured the 
license and would attend to everything. 
After we were married, he told me he had 
the certificate, and that he would keep it, as 
it would be safer with him.” 

Gil Gridley whistled softly, as was some- 
times a habit with him when he was very 
much put out or annoyed. The ’ young 
woman was so simple and trustful that the 
spectacle would have been almost laughable, 
it seemed to him, had it not been so very 
tragic. 


CLAEA CLINTOIT. 19 

‘‘Were there any witnesses?’’ he asked, 
after a painful pause. 

“Two of his friends acted as witnesses, 
but I have never seen them since,” she said, 
looking as if she would faint. “Don’t say 
he is a wretch, a scoundrel, for though 
everybody shouted it in my ear I couldn’t 
believe it. Ko, he may be passionate and 
quick-tempered but he is not a villain. I 
won’t believe anything you say against 
him,” and she stood up as she spoke, her 
fine nostrils dilated, her eyes brilliant with 
excitement, and her whole form quivering. 

What could Gil Gridley do with such a 
woman ? Crush her with a word, or let her 
dream on ? 

He took out his pocket memorandum-book 
and scribbled quietly till she had settled 
down again, and then simply said: 

“You have a photograph of him, I sup- 
pose? If you’ll leave that, we will try to 
trace him; and then you can bring a criminal 
case against him, if you like.” 

She seemed not to hear the latter half of 
the last sentence, only the first words caught 
her attention, and she brightly answered: 

“Oh, yes ; I’ve brought it with me,” and 
she produced a photograph of a tall, hand- 
some fellow of some twenty-six or more, 


20 kemmlee; oe, the fatal chaie. 

dressed in a light suit, posing beside a table, 
with his hat on one side of his head, and a 
fashionable cane in his hand. 

The moment the detective caught sight of 
the picture, he gave a great start, and un- 
guardedly blurted out: 

Grreat Scott! it’s Curley Crane.” 

The cry attracted the attention of Kilcul- 
len, who had just entered, and the official at 
the desk, and they both examined the pho- 
tograph with the keenest interest. 

“Th’ same shlippery villain,” said Kilcul- 
len, grimly, ‘‘an’ begorra, I owe him wan 
for pickin’ me pocket av me handcuffs an’ 
lavin’ a dhirty paper instead sayin’ I was too 
dhrunk to look afther thim. Too dhrunk! 
faith oi ’ll not be too dhrunk to nab him if 
ever oi get me oiye on him.” 

A faint gasp caused Gridley to look up, 
and then he saw that the young mother had 
started to her feet, and was staggering back- 
ward with one hand feebly groping for her 
own throat, as if to remove something that 
was choking her. 

He darted forward just in time to catch 
the child as it fell from her relaxing grasp, 
and Kilcullen, equally quick, caught her slen- 
der form as she fainted away. 

Gridley had them both taken to another 


(HjAEA CLINTON. 


21 


room, and attended to by the matron; but 
nearly an hour passed before the poor girl 
was able to see him, and even then it was 
only to persist in her delusion. 

“You think he is a thief,” she eagerly 
cried, “or something worse; and you may 
have taken him, and even convicted him of 
a dreadful crime, but I know he is innocent. 
He is too good, and too smart to have to 
descend to such a thing. If he were here 
now, I know he would deny it.” 

“So do oi,” whispered KilcuUen, under 
his breath. “Shure th’ vagabone would 
swear it on all th’ bibles that iver war 
printed.” 

Gridley was silent. He was thinking of 
the clever rascal the woman was defending— 
of his astonishing versatility, his facial power, 
his mimicry, his singing, and his wicked 
humor; and could not but agree with her as 
to all but his goodness. The detective even 
admitted to himself that the fellow was in- 
deed too clever to have to descend to crime, 
but he gave rum and laziness the credit of 
being at the bottom of it all, for he could 
readily call to mind many a man far less tal- 
ented who was earning from fifty to a hun- 
dred dollars a week on the stage. 

Cyrus, otherwise “Curley” Crane, was 


22 kemmlee; oe, the fatal chaie. 

clever — just a little too clever for tlie de- 
tective, for he was rarely caught under con- 
ditions to secure a conviction. Gridley, him- 
self, had taken him several times on suspi- 
cion, but nearly always had to groan over 
his speedy deliberation. The 'present case, 
however, seemed such a peculiarly heartless 
one that he resolved to hunt him down re- 
morselessly the first time he appeared in the 
city and committed a crime. 

Clara was dismissed with the assurance 
that Crane should be looked after, and that 
whatever information was received, should 
be promptly communicated to her. She 
went away murmuring her thanks, and hug- 
ging her child closely to her breast. 

The poor girl’s visit, and the outrageous 
treatment she had received at the hands of 
Curley Crane, made a deep impression upon 
Gridley. He thought of the matter day after 
day, trying to work out a plan whereby he 
could circumvent the villain, and more than 
once, in an unguarded way, expressed the 
opinion that he should succeed in tripping 
him up. 

As a matter of course, the menace reached 
Curley’s ears, and within a week, Gridley 
had one of the most singular challenges it 
was ever the lot of a detective to^receive. 


CHAPTER HI. 

GEIDLEY TAKEN IN — AN AUDACIOUS 
MESSAGE. 

By this time, Clara had returned to the 
home of her mother at Williamsville, a short 
distance from the city, where she lay seri- 
ously ill. Gridley expected her to die, and 
knew that if she did, there could be no pun- 
ishment for the man who had killed her. 

The audacious challenge of this man came 
to the detective from a rum -faced loafer, 
whom he met in a saloon in the lower part 
of the city. He was slouching up to the bar 
as Gridley appeared from an inspection of 
the rear room, and seemed to be covered 
with a network of rags instead of clothes. 
His hat was almost crownless, and one foot 
was covered only with a ragged stocking, 
and a dirty cloth, as he owned but one shoe. 
His hair had not been combed for months, 
and his general appearance was that of a 
man wholly lost through drink, and about 
to drop into the grave. 

This miserable being ordered a glass of 
“bum beer” — leavings of every kind mixed 
— and was about to raise it with a shaky 

( 23 ) 


24 kemmler; or, the fatal chair. 

liand to his lips, when he noticed the de- 
tective, and nodded cringingly. 

“You’re Gil Gridley, th’ detective, aren’t 
you ! ” he remarked, in a hoarse whisper. 

Gridley assented coldly enough, and passed 
on. But the loafer followed him quickly and 
caught up with him at the door, where he 
held on to his coat-sleeve like a man palsied 
with drink. 

“I could give you a good piece of news,” 
he said, in the same croaking tone, “if you’d 
pay me for it — if you’d pay me for it.” 

“ Well, out with it, and I’ll see,” answered 
the detective impatiently, for he was not 
favorably impressed by the man, and he was 
anxious to get away. 

“Curley Crane’s back in town, an’ he says 
he’ll do you three times runnin’, an’ yer’ll 
never know it, an’ never get a hold on him. 
Th’ first time he’s t’ take half a dollar out 
on yer, an’ leave all th’ rest o’ yer money. 
I heard him say it myself, an’ everybody 
said he’d do it, so you’d better look out.” 

“Oh, I’m always on the look out,” re- 
turned the detective, lightly, “and Curley 
will be smarter than I think he is if he gets 
his hand into my pocket; but I do hope 
he’ll try.” 

“An' he’s t’ rob a house right under your 


GEIDLEY TAKEN IN. 


25 


nose,’’ continued tlie sot. ‘‘He says yer’ll 
be well laughed ^t when th’ trick is done, 
an’ that’s all he wants, for yer head’s so 
blown up with conceit that yer think yer 
can do anything.” 

“Never mind my head,” snapped out the 
detective impatiently, “but tell me what else 
he’s to do.” 

“He didn’t say what th’ last trick was t’ 
be, only it’s t’ be th’ best of ’em all ; but I 
can easily find out for yer, if yer give me 
half a dollar now, an’ promise me another 
when I get th’ news. I ha’ n’t got so much 
as— er nickel in th’ world,” and he despair- 
ingly clutched onto the detective with both 
hands as he piteously croaked out the words. 

He seemed so utterly sunk in misery and 
want that, after making certain that his in- 
formation was reasonably correct, Gridley 
hastily produced the money and got away. 

Not far, however. He had hardly reached 
the next corner when he stopped short and 
stood there, looking supremely foolish, as a 
thought hashed upon him with a greater 
shock than that which any galvanic battery 
could have given. 

“Hone, I believe ! ” he cried, as he slapped 
his thigh. “That bloated object— that miS' 
erable scarecrow must have been Curley 


26 kemmler; or, the fatal chair. 

Crane himself, made up with rags and paint; 
and he said he was to take half-a-dollar out 
of me and leave all the rest of my money, 
and he’ s done it clean ! Oh, what a fool 1’ ve 
been ! what a flat ! what a simpleton! what 
a goose 1 And this is the ‘great detective,’ 
the great Oridley, who is never taken in, 
never defeated, never hoodwinked 1 ’ ’ 

If Oil Gridley had had a spare leg Just 
then he could have kicked himself with 
right good will, but he had neither that nor 
the time to do it, so he ran back to the 
saloon at the top of his speed, faintly hoping 
that the rascal would still be there, melting 
his half-dollar, but Curley was too smart, 
and was gone, and was laughing at the de- 
tective from a safe hiding-place. 

Gridley made no remark to the saloon- 
keeper, but left instantly, flrmly vowing to 
himself that not a human being should ever 
know how he had been taken in ; but he 
forgot that he was not the only one in the 
secret. The dare-devil who had done the 
trick, boasted of it on all sides, and the very 
next day Gridley’ s hair nearly rose on end, 
when Kilcullen entered the room where he 
happened to be, and with mock humility 
said : 

“Ye’re purty smart, aren’t ye, Gilbert, me 


GEIDLEY TAKEN IN. 


27 


b’yl Quite a credit to me, yer t’acher, 
eh?” 

“Jove, Mickey, I’d be the last to say so,” 
merrily retorted the other, wondering what 
was coming. 

“Could ye take half-a-dollar off’n me thin, 
an’ lave all th’ rist av me money ? ” he asked, 
with a boisterous laugh at his own clever- 
ness, as the sweat began to ooze from his 
companion at every pore. “Ho, ho, hoi 
ye’re a — a splindid apprintice for me to own, 
to let yersilf be taken in an’ done brown by 
Curley Crane. A fool an’ his money is soon 
par-r-ted. Ho, ho, ho ! Begorra, if it had 
been me he thried his dhirty trick on, I’d 
have grabbed him by th’ nose an’ mopped 
up th’ gutter wid him afore he could say 
‘half-a-dollar.’ Och, but this ’ll be th’ 
death av me, an’ I’d have given fifty half- 
dollars to have seen it done. You a detect- 
ive! Get out av me sight, oi disown ye ! ” 

Gridley joined in the laugh rather rue- 
fully, and then said, very meekly — 

“ Don’ t laugh, Mickey. You’ ve been done 
once or twice yourself, remember, and may 
be again.” 

“Once — only once by that spalpeen,” he 
retorted, “an’ oi’d give a fortnight’s pay to 
have him thry it on me again.” 


28 kemmler; or, the fatal chair. 

‘^Oh, perhaps he’ll charge you less, as 
you’re an’ old customer,” Grridley hopefully 
answered. “There are two more turns to 
come, so good luck to us both.” 

“Luck!” exclaimed Kilcullen, as he 
proudly raised himself on his toes. Sure, 
there’s no luck at all about it. Detectives 
are born, not made. It’s not luck, it’s ganius, 
me b’y, as yer’ll see whin oi get me hand 
in.” 

Gridley waited to hear no more, but hur- 
ried out. He passed down the street with 
his heart full of resentful feelings toward 
Curley Crane, and almost the first person he 
met on turning the next comer, was that slip- 
pery individual himself in his ordinary garb. 

Gridley came to a stand. Curley looked 
at him a little 'doubtfully. The detective 
smiled grimly, and in a somewhat sarcastic 
tone said: 

“Well, Curley, when is the robbery to 
come off ?” 

The other gave him a look which showed 
that he was very wide-awake, and then 
putting on a cast-iron expression, said-— 

“I don’t know what you mean.” 

“I suppose not,” returned the detective, 
with another grim smile, “and you never 
met an old soaker in rags, with a nose like 


GEIDLEY TAKEN IN. 


29 


an electric light, and a voice like that of a 
crow with a bad, cold, eh?” 

Curley turned his eyes inward, and after 
carefully searching his brain for some mo- 
ments, said, with a jerk, that he believed 
he Tidd met such a man somewhere. 

He could not understand the detective’s 
grim humor, and an undertaker with three 
funerals on hand and to be disposed of within 
an hour could not have shown a more solemn 
face than his own. 

So the two parted like two chess players, 
each vowing to himself that he would fairly 
gobble up the other when the next tussle 
came. 

Curley did not keep the detective long in 
suspense. A few days later the following 
brief intimation was sent to police head- 
quarters, addressed to Gfridley. 

‘‘Curley Crane will rob that house in 
Delaware Street occupied by Mrs. Harriet 
Thornhill, near the Presbyterian Church, on 
Tuesday night, between ten and twelve 
o’clock, and wants you to be on hand to see 
that he does it up in proper shape.” 

On the whole, the impudence and audacity 
of the message were rather amusing to Grid- 
ley, for he could not for a moment believe 
that the rascal would keep his word and 


30 kemmler; or, the fatal chair. 

attempt the crime. He had a vague sus- 
picion, however, that some house close to 
the one indicated might be attacked while 
he and his assistants were watching Mrs. 
ThornhilFs, so he resolved not to do his work 
by halves, but to have the whole immediate 
neighborhood invested as for a siege. 

Accompanied by Kilcullen he paid a visit 
to Mrs. Thornhill, and considerably alarmed 
the old lady by letting her know that her 
place was threatened, and then made ar- 
rangements to have the adjoining houses 
guarded within while Kilcullen assisted him 
in looking after Mrs. Thornhill’s house, the 
arrangements being that Gridley should 
watch the front of the building from a gar- 
den opposite, while Kilcullen guarded the 
rear. 

The front yard had two gates, and there 
was room to pass round both sides of the 
house, with an entrance in the rear from the 
next street. 

No special means had been taken to secure 
any valuables inside the house, as Gridley 
felt confident that no thief could possibly 
get within, but the occupants— a widow and 
her two daughters and the servant — were to 
remain out of bed till after midnight. 

The detective and his party were in Dela- 


GEIDLEY TAKEN IN. 


31 


ware Street by half -past nine, and Gridley 
and Kilcullen having reported themselves 
to the Thornhills, took up the positions, 
agreed on. 

The night was dark, so Gridley gave Kil- 
cullen stringent instructions to watch closely 
the gate opening from the back street, which 
was partially screened by a hedge, but his 
obtuse assistant had always a way of his 
own, and he paid more attention to the rear 
door and windows of the house, reasoning 
that if these were guarded the gates might 
look after themselves. 

Gridley was getting miserably cold after 
about an hour’ s watching, when he saw Kil- 
cullen, as he thought, come round the side 
of the house and tap lightly at the front 
door. 


CHAPTER lY. 


THE DETECTIVE COMES OUT AHEAD — CUELEY 
AND KEMMLEE. 

“That blockhead will spoil everything, if 
he doesn’t stick to my orders!” exclaimed 
Giridley, impatiently, and he was half in- 
clined to cross the street and pitch into him 
then and there. ‘ ‘ Confound him, ’ ’ he added, 
“he always will have a way of his own for 
doing things.’? 

The door was answered by the servant, to 
whom the supposed KilcuUen whispered 
something and was quickly admitted. What 
surprised Gridley, however, was that her 
answer to the whisper was: “Oh, yes, Mr. 
Gridley, come right in.” 

“She has mixed the names,” was his 
thought, and the idea of anyone being made 
up to resemble him never for a moment en- 
tered his mind. 

The man remained in the house for some 
time; indeed, he did not reappear at all in 
front. He was shown upstairs to and left 
in an unoccupied bedroom, where he re- 
mained just long enough to pocket a gold 

( 32 ) 


THE DETECTIVE COMES OUT AHEAD. 33 

watch, and a few articles of jewelry of no 
great value, after which he cautiously oiiened 
a back window and whispered down to Kil- 
cuUen: 

“Hist, Mickey! ’’ 

“ Yis, sur,” was the ready response. 

“ Go round to the front and guard it till I 
relieve you,’’ was the imperative whisper, 
and Kilcullen, innocently enough, instantly 
obeyed, believing he had been addressed by 
his superior. 

Reaching the front of the house, he pa- 
raded up and down before the door to the 
utter amazement of the watchful Gridley in 
the garden opposite, while the thief quietly 
descended to the kitchen, curtly greeted the 
servant, passed out of the house, and escaped 
by the back street. Meantime, Gridley had 
become impatient, and at last he rushed 
across the street and fiercely addressed his 
assistant: 

“ What on earth are you doing here? ” he 
demanded. “Didn’t I tell you to guard the 
rear? ” 

“ Yer did, sor, at first, but whin ye war in 
th’ house just now ye towld me to come 
round here till ye relaved me,” he doggedly 
answered. 

“In the house?” cried Gridley, with the 

3 


34 kemmlee; oe, the fatal chaib. 

first pang of apprehension. ‘‘I haven’t 
been in the house to-night.” 

‘^Och, go ’long wid ye; don’t thry any av 
yer thricks on me, Gil,” he derisively an- 
swered. ‘‘ Sure, yer face is too ugly to be 
mistook ony where, an’ yer hat an’ coat would 
be known in any second-hand store in th’ 
town.” 

“Did anyone speak to you from the 
house? ” roared Gridley, tearing along to get 
through the gate. 

“Och, how innocent he is! Av coorse, ye 
yersilf did.” 

“ I did not, and haven’t been inside, I tell 
you! ” gasped Gridley, in dire dismay. “ I 
saw you go in at the front door, and — ’ ’ 

“Me! Holy Moses, oi’ ve never been in th’ 
house to-night! ” yelled Kilcullen. 

“You haven’t?” groaned Gridley; “then 
we’ re done! Ring the bell! ’ ’ 

Again the servant answered, but this time 
she looked at Gridley dubiously. 

“Are you really Mr. Gridley?” she asked, 
“the same one I let in awhile ago? ” 

“I am Gilbert Gridley, but you did not 
let me in,” growled that individual. “I’m 
afraid you’ve been deceived. Call your mis- 
tress.” 

There was instant commotion and concern. 


THE DETECTIVE COMES OUT AHEAD. 35 

ending in tlie discovery that the watch and 
other valuables were gone. The old woman 
was incensed at what she called the stupid- 
ity of the servant-girl; but then she did not 
know Curley Crane’s wonderful power of 
imitating the features of others with his 
own. 

Gridley and Kilcullen agreed between 
themselves to draw a gentle veil over their 
own share in the failure, so nearly all the 
blame fell upon the servant-girl. Neverthe- 
less, the first-named detective was so thor- 
oughly enraged that he started out hunting 
for Curley without loss of time, and pulled 
him out of bed at three in the morning, tak- 
ing a grim delight in marching h^ through 
the mud and slush and seeing him safely 
locked up in a cold cell. 

But he knew pretty well that he could do 
no more. The watch and jewelry were gone; 
there was not the faintest evidence that Cur- 
ley and the detective’s impersonator were 
one and the same man; and though the 
watch was recovered next day from a pawn- 
broker, they could not connect the prisoner 
with the pawning, seeing that he was in the 
lock-up at the time. 

The result was that Curley was again lib- 
erated, protesting loudly that he was a very 


36 kemmler; or, the fatal chair. 

ill-used and much-persecuted man. He even, 
for form’s sake, with a cast-iron expression, 
hinted, in Gridley’s presence, that thatoihcer 
had a spite against him and was trying to 
hunt him down, and so he departed in tri- 
umph. 

A little later, in Kate Kelley’s retired 
quarters, on a narrow street in the lower 
part of the city, he was boasting over his 
success, and was being worshiped and 
feted and caressed by admiring friends of 
less nerve and genius, and of whom we shall 
know something more further on. Mean- 
while, Gridley was merely waiting for him 
to bring on his third trick. 

Kilcullen’s vaunting was over, he only 
said: “ Bedad, oi’m not greedy — oi’ll let ye 
have th’ whole job to yersilf th’ next time, 
an’ sweet bad luck go wid ye.” 

The message came as daringly as before, 
but was more guarded, and simply ran thus — 
Curley Crane says he will do you again 
on Thursday, the 13th.” 

It was quite impossible for Gridley to 
guard himself at any particular point, and 
he was anything but certain of the result, 
though, to say that he was watchful, but 
poorly expresses the condition. He was 
strung up to the highest tension, and when 


THE DETECTIVE COMES OUT AHEAD. 37 

Thursday came, corvid not have stood another 
day of the same excitement. 

Nothing happened till about dusk, when 
an old lady came to police headquarters in 
great excitement, and complained that she 
had been robbed through her servant of 
some spoons and other table silver. She was 
very deaf and afflicted with a bad cough, so 
it was difficult to get a clear idea of the de- 
tails, but the gist of the matter seemed to be 
that her servant had a persistent lover, who 
was tall and clever, and sang songs well, and 
was a great mimic — in short, answered per- 
fectly the description of Curley Crane. 
The old lady’s impression was that she 
had heard the girl call him Charley Cravan, 
but her deafness might account for the slight 
difference, besides which, there- was a possi- 
bility of Curley’s altering his name for the 
occasion. 

“I wish you would come out to my house 
to-night, between seven and eight o’clock,” 
she concluded, with many gaspings and 
wheezings, ‘‘and seize him when he comes. 
The girl says she never saw the things nor 
gave them away, but I know by the looks of 
the man that he is a thief, and must know 
where my silver has gone.” 

Gfridley hardly knew what it was that 


38 kemmlee; oe, the fatal chaie. 

aroused his suspicions at that moment — some 
unguarded inflection of the voice, or turn of 
the hand in adjusting her dress; but he looked 
long and keenly into the veiled and muf- 
fled face, and then decided not to let it out of 
his sight. 

He took down his hat and said he would go 
with her — see her home in fact — but to this 
she offered a vigorous protest; quite in vain, 
however. 

Gridley suggested a cab, but the old lady 
preferred to walk, and they got on very well 
till they reached a certain entryway in a 
narrow street, into which she darted with 
lightning speed. 

The detective thought she meant to pass 
through the building, and then, by means of 
a gangway, reach the next street; but half a 
minute later he found her in Kate Kelley’s 
quarters, with only half her clothes off, and 
the rest covering — Curley Crane 1 

The clever rascal protested that he had 
only assumed the part of an old woman as a 
joke, but Gridley handcuffed him all the 
same, and was marching him out when a 
gold breastpin, worn by Kate, who sud- 
denly appeared from the adjoining room, 
caught his eye. 

It was one of the pieces of jewelry taken 


THE DETECTIVE COMES OUT AHEAD. 39 

from Mrs. ThornliiU’s, so he took the wearer 
also, who loudly protested that she had re- 
ceived it as a present from a dear dead 
friend. 

On the whole, the case against Curley was 
a weak one, for the girl was a sturdy liar, 
and persisted in declaring that he had not 
given her the pin; so, in order to get other 
evidence, the case was continued, and the 
prisoner, as a matter of course, admitted to 
bail, which was promptly furnished by a 
lawyer, acting for a number of Curley’s ad- 
mirers. 

On leaving the court-room, Curley passed 
out into the broad corridor, and descending 
the granite steps, found himself in the street. 

At this moment, he noticed a familiar fig- 
ure just ahead of him. It was that of a 
medium-sized man, with a full beard and 
mustache, and dressed in quite ordinary 
clothes. 

“ It’ s Bill, ’ ’ he muttered to himself. “ I’ m 
going to do a real stroke of business to-night, 
not only to spite Gridley, but to replenish 
my exhausted exchequer, and he’s got to 
help me. He knows just enough to obey 
orders, and that’s all I want a pal to know.” 

He hurried forward, and quickly overtak- 
ing the party, grasped him by the arm. 


40 kemmler; or, the fatal chair. 

‘‘Ha, Kemmler,” he said, “yon’ re Just 
the man I want to see. How goes it?” 

William Kemmler turned his head slowly 
and regarded Curley for a moment before 
answering, then he said: 

“Bad as possible.” 

“What, is Tillie at it again?” 

“Again? I should say so! She’s always 
at it. The only difference is, it’s getting 
worse and worse all the time.” 

“ What is it that’s so very bad now?” 

“Why, when I went home last night I 
found a man with her — Ben Kucker. You 
know him; he’s round Kate Kelley’s a good 
deal, and they were drinking together.” 

“Oh, well, that isn’t much, women will 
have the men about ’em, you know.” 

“ Ah, but that ain’t the worst of it.” 

‘ ‘ W ell, what more? ’ ’ 

“Why, confound her, she’s robbed me 
again— waited till I’d dropped to sleep and 
then emptied my pockets of every cent I 
had. I’m dead-broke, Curley.” 

“Ha! then I have good news for you, my 
boy.” 

“Let me hear it quick then, for if I ever 
needed to hear good news it’s right now.” 

“Not here, Kemmler; let’s go to Jake’s 
saloon, where we can be quiet; or, better 


THE DETECTIVE COMES OUT AHEAD. 41 

still, to Kate’s quarters. Slie isn’t likely to 
be at home to-day, and we can have the 
whole place to ourselves.” 

“All right. I’m willing,” and the two men 
hurried off together. 


CHAPTER V. 


KEMMLEE’S DEEAM — THE FACE IH THE 
MOONLIGHT. 

Curley and Kemmler walked on together 
in silence for some time, when the latter sud- 
denly exclaimed: 

‘‘Jove, but I had a horrible dream last 
night; it makes me shudder even now to 
think of it, and it makes me hate Tillie 
, worse than ever.” 

“Ah, what was the dream? ” 

“I thought I was with my wife — ” 

“The deuce! that was horrible. I don’t 
wonder you shudder.” 

“Pshaw, you didn’t hear me out. I 
dreamed I was with my wife in her bed- 
room. She was in bed, and the moonlight 
was shining clear and full on her face and on 
one bare arm that had been thrown up on 
the pillow beside it.” 

“Asleep, was she?” 

“Asleep? No, she was dead. She was as 
white as marble in the moonlight; and in 
my dream I could see plain enough that she 
was dead. And Curley, I — I killed herl ” 

( 42 ) 


kemmlee’s deeam. 


43 


Killed her? What! do you really mean 
to say that you killed your wife before you 
came out here? ’’ 

“ No— no, not exactly that; but it was the 
way I treated her. I’ll tell you what I mean: 
Nearly eighteen months ago I saw and be- 
came acquainted with Ida Porter, in Cam- 
den, New Jersey. I loved her at first sight, 
she returned my love, and we were mar- 
ried.” 

‘‘WeU?” 

“Well, you see I had known Tillie Zeigler 
for several years, had sold meat and vegeta- 
bles to her, and — well, she never cared much 
for her husband, and we had become pretty 
intimate.” 

“Well?” said Curley again. 

^ ‘ W ell, ’ ’ repeated Kemmler, ‘ ‘ she found 
out the very next day that I was married, 
and kicked up an awful row.” 

“Quite natural.” 

“ I suppose so; but it was a pretty serious 
matter to me, for she swore she would not 
give me up, and the result was that we eloped 
together the next day and came here.” 

“What! you left your wife in two days 
after you married her?” 

“Yes, in two days after the ceremony I 
deserted her for Tillie Zeigler, and I’ve never 


44 kemmlee; oe, the fatal chaie. 

been sorry for it but once since, and that’s 
all the time.” 

“Well,” said Curley, slowly, ‘‘on the 
whole I believe you.” 

“ Yes,” added Kemmler, in a gloomy tone, 
“ and I know that my doing as I have has 
killed my wife, and that’s why I saw her so 
pale and horrible in my dream last night.” 

“Have you ever thought of going back to 
her?” 

“Lots of times, and have got all ready to 
start more than once, but Tillie always made 
such a fuss and besought me so earnestly 
to remain that I was influenced by her.” 

“ Well, cheer up, old man. I’ll put lots of 
money in your way to-night, and then you 
can do as you like.” 

“But it’s too late, I tell you. She’s dead 
now, I know it by my dream.” 

“Oh, nonsense; dreams always go by con- 
traries. But here we are. Come in,” and 
they entered the open doorway leading to 
Kate Kelley’s quarters. 

A little girl of some nine or ten years of 
age was coming through the hall on her way 
out. 

“Halloo, Bessie, wait a moment,” said 
Curley, hastily, and, unlocking Kate’s door, 
he passed through into the kitchen, and 


kemmlee’s deeam. 


45 


quickly returned with a quart pitcher, which 
he handed to her with a quarter of a dollar. 

‘‘ Go to Jake’s,” he said, ‘‘and have him 
fill that with beer, and you may keep the 
change for your trouble.” 

The girl’s eyes brightened a little, and with 
a rapid nod she hurried away. 

Very soon she returned; but, meanwhile, 
Curley and Kemmler had taken possession 
of Kate’s quarters. The former received her 
at the door, and taking the pitcher from 
her, turned the key in the lock and set the 
beer on the table in the dining-room — which 
was the kitchen as well — and then having 
filled two glasses, handed one to Kemmler 
and kept the other for himself. 

“Now, then,” said Kemmler, when he 
had emptied his glass and refilled it, and 
drawn his chair a little nearer to that of his 
companion, “tell me how you are going to 
put lots of money in my way to-night.” 

“Are you acquainted with the Black Rock 
district?” asked Curley. 

“ That’s the suburb on the Niagara River, 
ain’t it?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Well, I’ve been there, of course, but I’m 
not very well acquainted with that part of 
the city.” 


46 kemmlee; oe, the fatal chaie. 

‘‘Pm sorry, for I wish you knew some- 
thing of the house Pm going to speak of. 
No matter, however, I can tell you all 
that’ s necessary about it. It’ s a large house; 
stands well back from the street; fronts to- 
ward the river, and there are no houses very 
near it on either side.” 

Well, what of it? ” asked Kemmler, who, 
being a man of small mental caliber, was 
very slow of comprehension. 

“Why, there’s just this about it,” re- 
turned his companion, as he refilled both 
their glasses, “there’s a thundering big 
* boodle in that house — money, jewelry, and 
silver-plate enough to set us both up for 
life. All we’ve got to do, my boy, is to get 
inside and take possession of it.” 

“Ah, but how can we do that? ” 

“Easy enough. I’ve spent a good deal of 
time out there lately, and I know just how 
to manage it.” 

“ Hum, do you mean that we are to break 
into the place?” 

“You can call it that if you’ve a mind to; 
but I fancy there won’t be much breaking 
necessary. ” 

By this time the quart of beer was ex- 
hausted, and going into an inner room, Cur- 
ley speedily returned with a bottle of whisky. 


kemmler’s dream. 47 

Since his coming to Buffalo, and particu- 
larly since his troubles with Tillie, Kemm- 
ler had contracted the baneful habit of 
drinking freely, and so now the whisky 
quickly followed the beer, and by the time 
the bottle was empty he was ready for any- 
thing. 

Curley kept him with him the rest of the 
day; gave him plenty to eat and more to 
drink; talked incessantly of the big boodle 
that was awaiting them in the great house in 
the northern suburb, so that when darkness 
had come he wp.s eager for the adventure, 
being firmly convinced that that night would 
be the making of his fortune. 

They left Kate’s place between nine and 
ten o’clock and walked to Black Kock. At 
eleven they entered the grounds at the back 
of the house, and waited for the straggling 
clouds to cover the moon a little before cross- 
ing the garden and grass-plot which lay be- 
tween them and the mansion. 

Kemmler stood there gazing at the great, 
handsome residence in a thoughtful attitude; 
but he had no idea of the influence — the 
Fate, if you will — that awaited him within. 
No presentiment oppressed him; no shadowy 
hand tugged him back; no unheard voice 
whispered to him to turn and fly. He 


48 kemmlee; oe, the fatal chaie. 

was full of liope and strung up for anytliing 
short of actual murder. 

There was a large rear addition to the 
house, containing the kitchen, the laundry, a 
pantry and wash-room, and one servant’s 
sleeping apartment on the first floor and sev- 
eral on the floor above. 

Curley’s plan was to gain an entrance by 
means of the laundry window; but, unfort- 
unately for the house-breakers, the lower 
sleeping apartment lay just beyond this 
room, and must be traversed in order to 
reach the rooms they were aiming at. 

They wished, of course, to get to the main 
part of the house, which was unoccupied, 
but the front door and windows were too 
well protected to be meddled with, and so 
through the laundry and sleeping-room lay 
the only road to fortune. 

Having crossed the garden and grass-plot, 
they paused under the laundry window. 

“You are not a coward. Bill,” remarked 
Curley, who, having been much about the 
place of late, was fearful of being recognized 
if he entered the addition. “You can easily 
slip through in your stocking-feet and let me 
in by the front door, eh?” 

“I’m not afraid of man or devil,” was 
Kemmler’s reply; “but you’d better be 


KEMMLEE’S DEEAM. 


49 


ready to run, for if this lower bedroom is 
occupied, as the blinds are wide open, the 
girl may be wakeful on such a bright night 
as this?’ 

“Pshaw, I don’t think there’ll be any run- 
ning to do; but you’d better use the mask I 
gave you all the same.” 

The laundry window was easily manipu- 
lated, and then Kemmler, having tied a 
black crape mask on his face and removed 
his shoes, climbed through the window and 
noiselessly made his way toward the bed- 
room. 

Both doors happened to stand ajar, and 
he stepped into the bedroom without a creak 
or hitch. 

The corner containing the bed faced him 
as he entered, and in the bed lay a fair 
young woman, fast asleep, with the moon- 
light shining clear and full on her face and 
on one hare arm that had been thrown up on 
the pillow heside it. 

The sleeper was not a perfect beauty, by 
any means; but her face was one of those 
which look peculiarly attractive in sleep. Her 
hair and eyelashes were dark and her skin 
fair, almost to pallidness. William Kemm- 
ler, however, thought little of the girl’s at- 
tractiveness as he started back, with hands 

4 


50 kemmlee; oe, the fatal chaie. 

clenched against his breast, and his heart 
hammering away with thuds that might have 
waked her. 

He was frightened, sickened, and para- 
lyzed at the sight of that face in the moon- 
light — it was so like one burned deep into 
his memory; so like — so like — the dead one 
he had seen in his dream! 


CHAPTER VI. 


THE POWER OF THE FACE OVER KEMMLER — 
THE ALARM. 

William Kemmler had usually no more 
feeling in him than a block of stone, and the 
first sight of that calm face was more like 
the gasp of a man plunged into cold water 
than emotion. 

He stood stock still for a full minute, with 
his eyes chained to the face and his feet 
chained to the floor; then the sweat broke 
from his brow, and he was conscious that he 
was trembling all over. 

He might have remained chained there for 
an hour, but a slight movement on the part 
of the sleeping girl forced him back into the 
gloom of the corner nearest the door leading 
to the laundry. 

‘‘I can’t go on,” he thought, with a shiver, 
as he stood there with his brain in a whirl; 
then, more slowly, came the reasoning, ‘‘I 
must go back.” 

He grasped the back of a chair, and lean- 
ing forward, peered once more at the face 
illumined by the moonlight, with a mixture 

( 51 ) 


52 kemmler; or, the fatal chair. 

of superstitious dread and admiration. A 
mist came before his eyes, and he thought 
he was about to sink through the floor. 

‘ ‘ It’ s her very image! ’ ’ he thought, ‘ ‘ and 
yet, only last night, I saw her dead in my 
dream. It’s a warning to me; I must go 
back. I don’t care what Curley Crane says, 
it’s a warning.” 

He staggered back into the laundry, and 
almost fell out through the window. His 
legs were weak and trembling, and he had 
to clutch at the sill to keep from dropping. 
Curley, who had grown impatient waiting in 
front, hastened back round the house at this 
moment, and came forward in amazement. 

“ What’s kept you? ” he growled, in no 
pleasant voice. “Couldn’t you manage it? 
Great Scott! what has frightened you? Have 
you seen a ghost? ” 

‘ ^ Some — something — like — it, ” faintly 
gasped Kemmler. “Ho — do you remember 
what I said about the dream I had last 
night?” 

“ Yes; you said you saw your dead wife’s 
face in the moonlight.” 

“That’s it. Well, she’s in there— her or 
her very image. I saw her face just now in 
the moonlight. It’s a warning to me not to 
go on with this job. She said she’d follow 


THE ALARM. . 53 

me, dead or alive, if I was untrue to her, and, 
by thunder, I believe she’s doing it! ” 

“What was it you saw — a woman or a 
ghost?” asked Curley, scanning his trem- 
bling pal curiously. 

“A— a woman, I suppose, lying asleep,” 
was the quavering answer. “The moon was 
shining right on her face, as it was in the 
dream, and I couldn’t go an inch past it to 
save my life.” 

“A woman! a sleeping servant-girl!” 
echoed Curley, in the most taunting deris- 
ion. “What a chump to be frightened by 
a sleeping woman! Oh, Lord! ” and he bent 
himself nearly double in suppressed laugh- 
ter. 

Kemmler, instead of blazing up into a pas- 
sion, as his companion more than half ex- 
pected he would, bore the derision with won- 
derful meekness, and merely sighed deeply, 
and moved oft* slowly toward the street in 
front to leave the place. 

“What! you don’t mean to say you’re 
such a white-livered bloke as to turn back 
for that?” cried Curley, in intense disgust. 
“Thunder and Mars! who’d have thought 
you were such a hen? ” 

“I’m not; and them that says I am will 
have the lie stuck into them at the point of 


54 kemmlee; oe, the fatal ohaie. 

tMs!’’ cried Kemmler, rousing up suffi- 
ciently to draw a keen-edged knife. Am 
I to begin with you? ” 

‘‘Nonsense, man,” and Curley fell back a 
little before the long blade. “I didn’t mean 
to get you mad; but I’m not going off after 
getting up the plant and going to all the 
trouble and, expense I have. I shouldn’t 
think you’d desert me, either; but you may 
go if you like. I’ll stay and do the job 
alone.” 

Kemmler started, and then stood still, 
staring at his crafty companion with fierce 
eyes, till Curley thought he had gone clean 
mad. 

“You’ll not; you’re too cunning to risk 
it,” he remarked, at last. 

“Am I?” retorted Curley, furiously. 
“Come to me to-morrow, and see. And if 
that girl crosses my path, or interferes with 
me in any way. I’ll soon make short work of 
her.” 

Kemmler gripped him by the arm so sud- 
denly, and with such a vise-like clench, that 
he thought the nails would go through. 

“ I knew you were a devil, but you’re not 
to do that,” he said, with a dangerous glare 
of his awful eyes flashing into those of Cur- 
ley. ‘ ‘ Try to touch that girl, and I’ n break 


THE ALAEM. 


55 


your neck with one twist. She’s mine — at 
least she seems to belong to me; and to let 
you go near her would be like dipping my 
hands in Ida’s blood — Ida, the wife I’ve 
wronged. Now, Curley, I’m desperate; 
don’t make a murderer of me — at least not 
just yet.” 

As we already know, Curley Crane was a 
quick-witted, crafty, fellow. He saw that 
Kemmler had been completely upset by the 
sight of a woman who was the counterpart 
of his wife, and by seeing her, too, under 
such strange circumstances, in the moon- 
light, just as he had so recently seen his 
wife in his dream. He saw that this woman 
— all unconsciously, of course— had taken a 
powerful hold on Kemmler’ s mind, and that, 
therefore, while he was unwilling to lose the 
fruits of his planning and toil, he had better 
conciliate his pal a little, and seem to hcqui- 
esce in whatever he might suggest. 

‘‘Make a murderer of you! ” he repeated. 
“I’ve no wish to make a murderer of you, 
old man; at any rate. I’ve no desire to be the 
victim.” 

“Then keep away from that girl,” said 
Kemmler, sternly. 

“All right, ITl keep away from her; but 
mind you, Bill, I must go through this house 


56 kemmler; or, the fatal chair. 

to-night. I’m as completely dead- broke as 
you are, and I can’t afford to throw away all 
I’ve put out on this chance.” 

Kemmler reflected for a moment, then he 
slowly said: 

“Well, you may go through the house to 
your heart’s content; but you can’t go 
through that girl’s sleeping-room.” 

“But how in thunder am I to manage, 
then?” exclaimed Curley, impatiently, and 
with a look of wonder on his face. 

“I’ll go myself and open the frontdoor 
for you,” said Kemmler. 

“But you said before that you couldn’t 
go an inch past her to save your life.” 

“No more could I; but this time I shall 
not look at her.” 

“Well, go on, then, for we’re losing lots 
of precious time, and if the Job’s going to 
be done at all it must be done at once.” 

“Got any whisky?” asked Kemmler, ab- 
ruptly. 

“Yes,” nodded -Curley, and promptly 
passed him a flask. 

Kemmler seized it eagerly, and after taking 
a long pull, returned it to his companion with 
a sigh. Then, without a word, he climbed 
in at the open window and quickly disap- 
peared. 


THE ALAEM. 


57 


Curley waited for a moment or so to see 
if lie would return in consternation as be- 
fore; but seeing and hearing nothing^', he 
hurried round to the front, and had just as- 
cended the steps when Kemmler noiselessly 
opened the door. 

“ Now go ahead with your plundering and 
robbing,” he whispered. “I shall have 
nothing to do with it, mind. I’m going back 
to watch over Aer,” and without giving Cur- 
ley a chance to reply, he again disappeared. 

With an impatient growl, Curley made his 
way to the room where he knew the money- 
safe to be, and being a consummate ‘‘goifer 
man,” soon had it open and its contents 
transferred to his ample pockets. 

He then hunted around the bedrooms for 
jewelry and like valuables, but found little 
that was worth the trouble of carrying 
away. 

Next, he turned his attention to the silver- 
plate in the dining-room, and here he had 
another safe to crack; but this was soon 
accomplished, and its contents transferred 
to a large green-baize bag which he had 
brought with him. 

His task was completed, and now all he 
had to do was to warn Kemmler and leave 
the place. 


58 kemmler; or, the fatal chair. 

But how could he warn Kemmler? The 
fellow was so wrought up that if he should 
vent’ire near the girFs sleeping apartment 
he would fly at his throat, or at least make 
such a row as would alarm the house. 

After a moment’s reflection, he determined 
to go outside and attract his attention from 
the laundry window. 

He left by the front entrance, carefully 
closing the door after him ; and passing 
round the house, dropped his bag on the 
ground, and climbing up to the window, gave 
a low whistle. 

Kemmler immediately made his appear- 
ance; and by the light of the moon, Curley 
saw that his face was pale as death. 

‘‘ Great Scott I what’s the matter with you, 
man?” he whispered. ‘‘Come, out with 
you; I’ve got what I came for, and now I’m 
ofl.” 

‘ ‘ I can’ t, Curley, I can’ t, ’ ’ answered Kemm- 
ler, in a hoarse and audible voice. “ I can’t 
keep my eyes ofl her face; she chains me 
here.” 

But he had spoken too loudly; the girl 
awoke with a start, and seeing one man in the 
laundry and another at the window, uttered 
shriek after shriek, which quickly roused 
the house. 


CHAPTER yil. 

CUELEY’S AEEEST and escape — KEMMLEE 
CONFEONTED BY LIZZIE LANSING. 

Curley seized the green-baize bag and 
darted away. Kemmler, too, tumbled out 
of the window and made off. Both quickly 
reached the street, while the continued cries 
from the house came ringing after them. 

These cries were answered unexpectedly 
from the nearest corner by a policeman’s 
whistle, and the sound of rapidly approach- 
ing footsteps from that direction. 

Ho sooner did Curley comprehend his dan- 
ger than he dropped his bag into a neighbor- 
ing hedge, and started north. And Kemm- 
ler, in the flurry of the moment, followed 
the usual practice and took exactly the op- 
posite course. 

Curley hadn’t noticed just how near the 
officer was, and failing to dodge under his 
sweeping arms, was pinned fast and struck 
two or three savage blows before he could be 
induced to stand still. 

He then tried to explain, in his plausible 
way, how he had been taking a peaceful 

( 69 ) 


60 kemmler; or, the fatal chair. 

stroll in that delightful quarter, when he had 
been attacked by a tough-looking individual 
who accused him of being a spy on his move- 
ments, and had hit him several times vuth a 
big stick, causing him to cry out, which 
cries he innocently hinted might have at- 
tracted the officer’s attention. 

As very few take strolls between one and 
two o’clock in the morning, and as the gar- 
den gate of the mansion into which they had 
just broken was standing open, and as loud 
cries were still proceeding from the house, 
the policeman’s reply was to tighten his 
grasp on Curley’s arm, and hold him fast 
till he had made an investigation. 

Deep foot-prints led right across the gar- 
den-plot to the end of the house, as the 
officer’s lantern clearly showed, and by fol- 
lowing that track he speedily came to the 
open laundry window with one pane broken, 
and the sticky brown paper still adhering to 
the fragments. 

The officer pounded on the back door. 
The inmates were all up, and he was speedily 
admitted. 

They declared that two safes had been 
broken open, and the house robbed of every- 
thing valuable that could be carried off. 

‘‘All right,” said the officer, reassuringly, 


CUELEY’S AEEEST AND ESCAPE. 61 

‘‘Tve got one of the robbers here, and I’ll 
soon have the other; as for the valuables, 
they can’t be far off, I take it. Let’s see 
the safes, I want to see what kind of work 
it is.” 

He was conducted to the dining-room, and 
a very brief inspection sufficed him. 

“That’s clean work — dandy work!” he 
exclaimed, admiringly; “ a first-class ‘goffer 
man’ did that job, and no mistake. Did 
anyone see the burglars? ” 

“Yes,” quickly answered the chamber- 
maid, with a shudder, “Lizzie Lansing did. 
She sleeps just off the laundry, and they 
had to pass right through her room and 
close to her bed to reach the main part of 
the house.” 

“Ah 1 and which of you is Lizzie Lansing? ’ ’ 
“ This one, sir.” 

“Ah, a very pretty girl. And so you saw 
the rascals, did you, Lizzie?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“ How many were they— two, eh? ” 

“Yes, sir, two.” 

“ is this one of them? ” 

“I — I don’t know, sir. One had a crape 
over his face, and the other was looking in 
at the window; but his face was in shadow, 
and I couldn’t distinguish the features.” 


62 kemmlee; or, the fatal chair. 

“ Well, does lie look anything like either 
of them? ” 

“He’s not the same height, nor built as the 
one I saw standing in the laundry, and his 
head don’t look quite like that of the other 
man.” 

Curley now stoutly protested that he had 
never been within the grounds; but he was 
quickly recognized by one of the servants as 
having visited the house quite frequently of 
late, and then by all, and on being taken 
outside, it was found that one of his shoes 
exactly fitted one of the foot-prints in the 
garden, so that his protest went for noth- 
ing, and the officer prepared to lead him 
away. 

But, unfortunately, this guardian of the 
peace had made a serious mistake — he had 
failed to handcuff his prisoner; and having 
many and serious reasons for not wanting 
to pay another visit to police headquarters 
so soon after leaving the shadows of the court 
house, Curley determined to make a break 
for liberty. 

He watched his opportunity. It soon came, 
and like lightning he struck out from the 
shoulder. 

The cop dropped as though he had been 
shot, and without waiting to see how badly 


oitkley’s arrest and escape. 63 

he was hurt, Curley made off at the top of 
his speed. 

But on reaching the point in the hedge 
where he had dropped the green-baize bag, 
he had the nerve to stop and secure it; then, 
rapidly turning the next corner, he made 
for a stable which he saw at some little dis- 
tance away. But just as he was crossing the 
street, an empty cab came along, and hail- 
ing it, quickly jumped inside and was rapidly 
driven cityward. 

On reaching the neighborhood of his own 
private quarters, he left the cab, and hurry- 
ing homeward, was fortunate enough to gain 
the shelter of his room without once attract- 
ing the attention of the police. For the 
next few days, Curley was content to keep 
well under cover. 

Of course the great burglary at Black 
Rock created a good deal of excitement, and 
Gil Gridley was anxious to ferret out the 
successful house-breakers. The unfortunate 
policeman and the several servants tried to 
give him a description of the man who had 
been captured and who had made his escape; 
but somehow what they said was not very 
lucid, and he never once suspected Curley; 
and, indeed, had no definite idea as to who 
the operators really were. 


64 kemmlee; oe, the fatal chaie. 

While the matter was weighing on his 
mind, and he was thinking particularly of 
the man Lizzie Lansing had seen standing in 
the laundry, between the window and the 
door opening into her room, with a crape 
mask over his face, he suddenly saw before 
him just such a figure as she had described 
to him, and wearing clothes very much of 
the same cut. 

The man was coming out of a German 
meat-market, and was a person by this time 
pretty well known to Gridley; for ever since 
Paul Pinkham’s visit he had done his best 
to keep his eye on him, as he had also upon 
the woman living with him as his wife, hav- 
ing, notwithstanding his agreement with Kil- 
cullen, even gone so far as to pay her one or 
two visits. The detective noticed that the fel- 
low was looking pale and concerned, and not 
at all bold and defiant, as he sometimes did. 

“Anything wrong, KemmlerP’ he asked, 
carelessly, as he stopped him. 

“Oh, no, sir; just been in here asking for 
a job.” 

The detective grinned unfeelingly. 

“Humph, and you got one, of course?” 
he dryly said. 

“Yes; Fm to go to work next Monday,” 
he answered, humbly enough. 


CURLEY’S ARREST AND ESCAPE. 65 

‘‘ Oh, ho! Well, may be you’ll have other 
business before that. I want you to go with 
me.” 

Like one experienced in such matters, he 
only stared at the detective and said noth- 
ing; but Gridley fancied that a smothered 
sigh escaped him as he quietly took his place 
by his side when he was ready to lead him 
away. 

The detective glanced down at his shoes 
with interest, and saw that Kemmler was 
calmly following the look. In fact, he had 
changed his shoes, so that when they reached 
the grounds of the burglarized house they 
fitted none of the carefully preserved foot- 
prints. 

Then he was taken into the house and con- 
fronted by Lizzie Lansing. 

She confessed that he looked something 
like the man she had seen in the laundry; 
but she could not swear to him, not even 
when Gridley had put a crape mask over his 
face. 

All the time they were in the house Kemm- 
ler stared at this girl persistently, and had 
eyes for no other. 

Lizzie sat by the ironing-table in the laun- 
dry during the interview, and more than 
once while the detective was questioning 
6 


66 kemmlee; oe, the fatal chaie. 

her was startled to see the dull, almost 
sleepy-looking, eyes of Kemmler intently 
fixed upon her face, and she tremulously 
asked herself what it meant. 

Was he marking her out for murder or 
revenge, or could murder and revenge lurk 
behind such passionless eyes and that pallid 
face? 

She felt glad that he was in the custody of 
the detective, for on the whole she thought 
such a dark-browed, gloomy-looking ruffian 
would be safest behind the bars of a prison; 
but she was disagreeably startled when Grid- 
ley, as he rose to go, said: 

“Well, Kemmler, I think I shall have to 
let you off for this time; but mind, my man, 
I shall keep an eye on you.’’ 

Lizzie’s womanly instincts, as she saw the 
man depart, told her that the liberation fore- 
told trouble to herself. 


CHAPTER yill. 

A LITERAEY EFFORT — DISAPPOINTED HOPE. 

There was little exultation in William 
Kemmler’s face as he left the Black Rock 
house and grounds; indeed, Detective Grid- 
ley watched him curiously, wondering what 
it was that appeared to oppress him like a 
nightmare; but he passed out of sight with- 
out his being able to solve the problem. 

A night or two later Lizzie Lansing was 
strolling along the water-front after an even- 
ing out, when she was startled by the face 
of Kemmler suddenly appearing before her, 
with the same pallid and piteous expression. 
She screamed out and ran, and before she 
was out of sight had just time to hear him 
say: 

“Don’t be afraid Miss, I wouldn’t harm 
you for all the world.” 

Still she ran and ran till she reached the 
house, thinking his heavy feet were follow- 
ing fast, and then finding herself alone al- 
most fainted on the threshold. 

“A man chased me,” she gasped, as she 
reached the kitchen, “and, oh! I think it 

( 67 ) 


68 kemmlek; oe, the fatal chaie. 

was one of tlie burglars, so lie’s coming 
back, may be in the nigbt-time.” 

The female servants decided to sleep to- 
gether, and carefully went over every lock 
and fastening in the house, but no one dis- 
turbed them. 

Next day, Gridley received the following 
note: 

“Detective Geidley: — 

‘ ‘ Deer Sur : — You think Ime not a-workin, 
but if you cum round to the Jerman meet- 
market whar you met me youl see fur your- 
self, Bill Kemmlee.” 

“P. S. I want you to cum an see.” 

“P. S. Agin. This ere was rit by Dick 
Dillon, cos Bill he can’t reed an rite.” 

Not sure but there might be some subtle 
scheme under this tremendous literary effort, 
the detective went round to the meat-market 
in the afternoon, and found Kemmler with 
his sleeves up, his apron on, and with knife 
in hand, cutting away like a good fellow. 

“He knows all about me,” he remarked, 
with a jerk of the thumb in the direction 
of his employer; “but as I can do the work 
of two ordinary men in this line and don’t 
expect fancy wages, he’s mighty glad to 
give me a chance.” 


A LITEEARY EFFORT. 


69 


‘‘And how long do you expect to keep this 
up?” Gridley quietly asked. 

“Oh, for a good long while, I hope,” he 
answered, and then the same strange shadow 
crossed his face, and the old smothered sigh 
escaped him. 

“There’s something else,” said the de- 
tective, keenly — “something that you’re 
keeping back? ” 

“Not much,” he slowly answered, keep- 
ing his eyes on his work. “Has nobody 
been making complaints of me?” 

“No, not yet.” 

“And if they did you wouldn’t believe 
them? ” 

“I don’t know as to that. On the whole 
I’m afraid I might.” 

He appeared distressed, but worked on in 
silence for some minutes. At last the detect- 
ive said: 

“Now, Kemmler, why did you send for 
me?” 

“ Oh, for nothing in particular, sir — only 
I’ve heard that you like to give unfortunate 
fellows like me a chance.” 

“That’s so, Kemmler — that’s so, when 
they want to turn square, I do.” 

“Well, you could do me a mighty good 
turn,” he slowly continued, with his pale 


70 kemmler; or, the fatal chair. 

cheeks reddening a little — “ a mighty good 
turn. You know that girl out at the big 
house where you took me — the nice looking 
one, I mean, with the splendid long eye- 
lashes and fair skin? ’’ 

“ The laundress? Yes, I remember her.” 

‘‘Well, if you should see her any time, 
you might say, kind o’ accidental like, ‘ That 
man Kemmler that I had out here for you 
to look at is not a bad sort of fellow at 
all. Works in Schaefer’s meat-market. Oh, 
he’s all right; you needn’t be afraid of him.’ 
See what I mean, sir?” and he trembled 
all over as he asked it, and looked so pitiful 
that Gridley instantly divined something of 
the truth. 

“You’re in love with her?” he said, with 
a tinge of sadness in his tone. 

“I don’t know if it’s that you’d call it, 
but I’d be glad to die for her. She’s the 
very image of my wife Ida, whom I basely 
deserted for the woman that’s been dragging 
me down to perdition ever since, and whom 
I know now I’ve killed by my unkind- 
ness.” 

“And so you love this woman for your 
dead wife’s sake? ” 

“Something like that, sir. It seems as 
though if I could only do something to make 


A LITEEARY EFFORT. 71 

her happy, I should be squaring accounts 
with Ida— making her happy, in fact.’’ 

‘‘I’m sorry for you, Kemmler.” 

“ What! Do you think she won’t look at 
me?” 

There was such a wistful and deathly look 
of despair coming over his face that the de- 
tective had not the heart to speak his real 
thoughts. 

“Oh, I don’t know as to that; there’s no 
saying what may happen if a man only 
keeps straight,” he vaguely answered. 

“That’s it! that’s it!” cried Kemmler, 
eagerly catching at the straw. “Keeping 
straight does it; ” and then he sliced away at 
the meat at a rate that would have freighted 
a ship with steaks in an afternoon. 

A day or two later Lizzie Lansing, in 
going down toward the river, was again 
startled by the terrible face of the man she 
believed to be a house-breaker. Of course 
she screamed and prepared to run for dear 
life, but before she could do so he dropped 
on his knees in front of her, and imploringly 
extended his hands. 

“Don’t, don’t scream and run,” he trem- 
blingly gasped. “I’m not so very awful.” 

“You are; you’re a burglar, and worse, 
I’m sure of it; and others think so, I know, 


72 kemmlee; oe, the fatal chaie. 

though they couldn’t hold you,” she ex- 
claimed in tertor. “ Go away, or I’ll scream! 
I can’t hold it back.” 

‘‘I’ll do anything you ask; I’ll go away 
and kill myself if you’ll only give me a 
kind look,” he answered, still on his 
knees, and with something like tears in his 
eyes. 

“I can’t look kind when I’m frightened,” 
she answered, shrinking back; and then 
with a rush she was gone, and nearly fainted 
at the door as before, though after a little 
she wondered what she had been so scared 
about. 

Still, it was quite intolerable that any 
respectable girl should be pestered and 
frightened by a man following her; so, after 
consultation with her friends, Lizzie called 
at police headquarters to report the annoy- 
ance to Gridley. 

He sympathized with her, and meant to 
say some pretty harsh and severe things 
about Kemmler; but somehow, when he was 
about to open his mouth, a vision of the 
butcher’s pitiful countenance came up before 
him and sealed his lips. 

“ Did he try to lay hands on you, or injure 
you?” he quietly asked. 

“ Oh, no; but he frightened me out of my 


A LITEEAEY EFFOET. 


73 


wits. Can’t you take up a bad man when 
he does that?” 

Yes; but Kemmler isn’t a bad man just 
now; he’ s a steady workingman — a butcher; ’ ’ 
and Gfridley felt that he had at least done 
himself some good by saying those kind 
words. 

“Oh!” and Lizzie hesitated, but still 
pouted. 

“The fact is, Lizzie,” the detective con- 
tinued more cheerily, “ I do believe the fel- 
low’s in love with you.” 

“Well, he can get out again as quick as 
he likes, for I’d as soon think of jumping 
into the Niagara River as of having anything 
to do with him,” was her grave reply; “and 
if he comes near me again. I’ll set the police 
on him.” 

Her words said much, but her tone said a 
great deal more, for it plainly told Gridley 
that she was already engaged, and that all 
Kemmler’ s hopes were a snare and a de- 
lusion. 

For some days Kemmler did not annoy 
her, or come in her way, though he watched 
and feasted on her shadow as madly as ever; 
but at length they met again, when he only 
gave her a pitiful look and stepped humbly 
aside to let her pass. Not a word escaped 


74 kemmlee; oe, the fatal chaie. 

his lips; and when she had passed on, 
woman-like, she turned and came back. 

“Why do you annoy me this way?’’ she 
imperiously demanded. “ Did I ever do any- 
thing to you to deserve this persecution? ” 

“ I didn’t mean to offend you, indeed I did 
not,” he piteously answered. “You’re like 
the wife I once had — the wife that’s dead — 
and you seem to live in her place. If I had 
you for a wife, or just to say a kind word to 
me, I’d be something yet.” 

The words were poured forth in a burst, 
and she could see his outstretched hands 
quiver as he spoke, and she softened 
slightly. 

“You’re a bad man,” she said, resent- 
fully, “and how can you expect me to look 
at you? ” 

“Not now — I’m not a bad man now,” he 
pleaded, with all his soul in his words. 

How could she get rid of him? A bright 
flash of thought, and she had it. 

Keep away from me for a month, and don’t 
do anything wicked, and I’ll think of it,” 
she said; and then she ran off, comfortably 
consoling herself for the little deception by 
the thought that by that time she would be 
married and far from the city. 

“It may do him good, and it can do me no 


A LITEEAEY EFFOET. 


75 


harm, and I won’t be frightened out of my 
life every night,” she thought; and so the 
matter rested. 

Kemmler firmly resolved to obey her to 
the letter. He never showed his face to her, 
and though he often wandered out to Black 
Rock, it was always late at night, when he 
could feast his eyes on the house that held 
her without annoying or frightening her. 

The month was nearly up, when, late one 
evening, they met, by the purest accident, 
near the river. 

Kemmler was going to hurry away; but 
Lizzie, having caught sight of his face, was 
horribly startled by what she saw, and felt a 
little compunction for the part she had 
played. 

‘‘ Is it because of me that you look so hag- 
gard and thin?” she asked. 

“Just because of you,” he simply an- 
swered. 

“ r m sorry, ’ ’ she said, hesitatingly ; ‘ ‘ but 
I — I’m to be married in a day or two.” 

Kemmler staggered, and looked so deathly 
that she thought he was going to drop, and 
put out a hand to support him. 

‘ ‘ Don’t — don’ t come near me!” he groaned, 
and with a despairing gesture disappeared in 
the darkness. 




CHAPTEE IX. 

TILLIE ZEIGLER LEARNS KEMMLER’S SECRET 
— THE SUGGESTION OF A DEMON. 

That same evening, Tillie Zeigler was en- 
tertaining a favored friend, Ben Eucker, and 
with a pitcher of beer and two glasses they 
were doing their best to be merry and socia- 
ble. 

But, somehow, Tillie couldn’t be merry. 
She was absent-minded, or, rather, she was 
thinking of Kemmler, and of his strange con- 
duct of late, and the more she thought the 
more vexed and annoyed she became; for, 
while she arrogated to herself the right of hav- 
ing as many male friends as she pleased, she 
couldn’t bear to have him look at, or even 
think of, another woman, and she was sure 
that it was a woman, and nothing else, that 
kept him so much away from home and 
made him so utterly indifferent to her. 

“A penny for your thoughts, Tillie!” 
exclaimed Eucker, suddenly. 

“I don’t think they’re worth it,” returned 
the girl, rousing herself a little. 

‘‘Xo,” retorted Ben, with a laugh; “I 

( 76 ) 


THE SUGGESTION OF A DEMON. 77 

don’t think they are, if you’re thinking of 
what I suppose you are.” 

‘ ‘ What’ s that? ’ ’ exclaimed Tillie, quickly. 

“ Your precious man, Bill Kemmler. And 
that ain’t all, I know what’s troubling you.” 

‘‘ You do, eh?” 

“Yes, you’re jealous — and, ho, ho! jealous 
of a woman you’ve never seen, and don’t 
know anything about; but I know her — 
ha, ha! ” 

Tillie Zeigler started to her feet, with flash- 
ing eyes. 

“You — you know her, Ben Rucker? You 
knew he was after another woman, and didn’t 
tell me?” 

“Pshaw, Tillie, you needn’t get up on 
your ear about it The gal wouldn’t have 
anything to do with him. Her affections are 
bestowed elsewhere. Ho, ho!” 

“What do you mean, Ben?” 

“Just what I say. She thinks she’s going 
to be married in a day or two. Ha, ha! ” 

“Oh, I think I understand,” said Tillie, 
slowly. ‘ ‘ Who is the girl? ’ ’ 

“Her name is Lizzie Lansing. She lives 
with the Bussells, out in the Black Rock 
ward.” 

“Ha! that’s where you go pretty often, 
isn’t it?” 


78 kemmlee; or, the fatal chair. 

^‘Well, I manage to see Lizzie once in 
awliile.” 

‘‘ What would Kate Kelley say if she knew 
it?’’ 

‘^Oh, I don’t have much to do with Kate 
nowadays. Nobody don’t stand no show 
with her when Curley Crane’s around, and 
now he’s thrown over that pretty, innocent 
Clara Clinton, Kate has him all to her- 
self.” 

Tillie was silent for a moment, and then 
she said: 

‘‘Kemmler’s desperately in love with this 
— this Lizzie Lansing, ain’t he?” 

‘‘ You’d better believe he is — clean in, 
head over heels, all over. Never saw any- 
thing like it.” 

‘‘ Is — is she pretty?” 

“ Well, rather; but not so all-fired pretty, 
after all.” 

“ What did she do to attract him? ” 

‘‘ Why, she didn’t do anything! Gridley, 
the detective, took Bill out there to see if 
she could identify him as one of the robbers, 
you know, and when he saw her he was com- 
pletely upset — thought it was his wife’s 
ghost, I believe; and he’s been hanging round 
the place and dogging her footsteps ever 
since.” 


THE SUGGESTION OF A DEMON. 


79 


‘‘But you say she won’t have anything to 
do with him? ” 

“JSTot she, for she’s afraid of him — thinks 
he’s a bad, bad man; and besides, she’s 
going to marry a nice, innocent gentleman 
in a day or two, with whom she’s desperately 
in love. Ho, ho!” 

Tillie didn’t believe all Kucker told her, 
but she was willing to let the matter drop 
for the present, firmly resolving in her own 
mind, however, that she would get to the 
truth of the matter and that, too, before she 
was a day older. 

But Ben wasn’t quite done with the sub- 
ject yet. 

“He’s out there now,” he abruptly said; 
“and though he hasn’t seen much of the girl 
lately, he’s likely to run upon her to-night, 
as I happen to know.” 

“The ungrateful beast,” muttered Tillie. 
“Here I’ve been a good friend to him for 
years, and for eighteen months I’ve stuck to 
him like pitch, and this is all the thanks I 
get.” 

“He’s turned awful good of late, hasn’t 
he?” said Ben. 

“Yes,” was the reply, “if you call work- 
ing and leaving his beer alone being good; 
but he don’t come near me, that’s the same 


80 kemmlee; oe, the fatal chaie. 

as his wife to him, no more than as though I 
wasn’ t alive. When he’ s in the house — ^which 
isn’t often nowadays — ^he’s as glum as an 
oyster, and where he sleeps I hardly know.” 
“ Is his wife really dead? ” 

‘‘Dead! She’s no more dead than I am. 
I wish she was.” 

“But he thinks she is?” 

“Yes; dreamed about her— thought he 
saw her lying dead on her bed in the moon- 
light, and so you can’t beat it out of him 
but that she is dead — the fool! ” 

“Well, here he comes, and the beer’s fin- 
ished, so I’ll be off;” and Kucker hastily 
arose and departed by the back door. 

Kemmler entered a moment later by the 
front door. He hardly noticed Tillie, but 
taking a glass, went to a cupboard, and, to 
the woman’s astonishment, took down a bot- 
tle of whisky, and filling the glass to the 
brim, fairly threw the contents down his 
throat. Then he repeated the dose, and 
leaving the bottle and glass where he had set 
them down, rushed into a small bedroom, 
locking the door after him. 

Tillie sat long into the night, making up 
her mind just what she would do; and hav- 
ing at length marked out a course of action, 
went to bed. 


THE SUGGESTION OF A DEMON. 81 

In the morning Kemmler went out, and 
Tillie, after putting away the breakfast 
things, did what she had done more than 
once before; she filled a basket with buttons, 
needles, thread, shoestrings, and other knick- 
knacks, and started for the Black Bock 
suburb on a spying expedition. She was 
bent upon seeing Lizzie Lansing, and find- 
ing out all she could about her. 

She reached the Bussell residence, and 
calling at the back door, had an opportunity 
to see both Lizzie and the cook; but spite of 
all she could do, she could not get them to 
talk much. 

After a little reflection, she determined to 
call at the next house, where, she thought, 
the servants might be more communicative. 

This house, like the Bussell’s, stood alone, 
and well back from the street; but she soon 
reached it, and having been admitted to the 
kitchen, was quickly able to turn the con- 
versation on the next door neighbors, and 
the robbery which had recently been com- 
mitted there. 

She found out a great deal about Lizzie 
Lansing, the heroine of that affair, among 
other things, how she often met a man of 
Kemmler’ s description by the water-side; and 
having seen the girl herself now, she decided 
0 


82 kemmler; or, the fatal chair. 

that Kemmler was hopelessly infatuated 
with her, and that all that was left for her 
was revenge. 

But how should she revenge herself? The 
next moment the question seemed clearly 
answered for her. 

They were still running on about the dar- 
ing robbery next door, when Tillie suddenly 
asked: 

‘‘But ain’t you afraid the villains will pay 
you a visit next?” 

“Oh, no; we’re not afraid of them,” was 
the confident answer, “for the Major keeps 
all the valuables in a safe in his own bed- 
room, and has a Winchester rifle and a big 
revolver constantly at his bedside. A whis- 
per would wake him, and he’ s strong enough 
to master two ordinary men, even without 
the fire-arms.” 

Tillie gave a curious start, which was no- 
ticed even by the unsuspicious servants, and 
for some moments appeared strangely ab- 
stracted and inattentive to the gossip which 
followed. 

She was not a particularly attractive 
woman, and wore a perpetual cloud on her 
brow; but for the moment the cloud had 
lifted and been replaced by a look of eager 
hope and excitement. 


THE SUGGESTION OF A DEMON. 


83 


If anyone who knew Tillie Zeigler had 
seen that start and peculiar look, they would 
have rashly concluded that she was a thief’s 
tout, or spy, and had come upon a splendid 
chance for plunder. Tillie deceived many, 
and even herself into the bargain, at times. 

It was the rifle and big revolver that fas- 
cinated her most, and she returned to the 
subject again and again, like a murderer who 
could not keep his eyes from the knife or 
hatchet he had used. 

‘‘And is that rifle really loaded with bul- 
lets? ’ ’ she asked, with breathless interest. 

“The stock’s chock-full of ’em, and the 
revolver’s got seven barrels, all loaded,” was 
the answer; “and then the Major’s such a 
good shot that it would be certain death to 
any burglar who tried to rob the place.” 

‘ ‘ Certain death ! ’ ’ Tillie repeated the words 
in an undertone, more to herself than to the 
servants, and her nervous hands became 
clenched on her basket as fiercely as if she 
saw the tragedy before her — the shot in the 
dark, the great outcry, the dropping of the 
burglar, and the blood welling from his 
wounds. 

“It would be no more than he deserved,” 
she hoarsely muttered, “and then it 
wouldn’ t be murder. ’ ’ 


84 kemmlee; oe, the fatal chaie. 

‘‘Murder! Oh, no,” echoed the cook. 
“It would be done in self-defense, and that 
isn’t counted murder.” 

“Yes, in self-defense,” fiercely continued 
Tillie; “ and self-defense is right. Nobody 
can be blamed for that. ’ ’ 

The servants stared at Tillie pityingly, 
and thought that she must be half cracked; 
and perhaps the servants were not far wrong. 

Who shall define the exact stage at which 
a man or woman ceases to be merely frenzied 
and revengeful, and becomes actually insane? 
No one can. It is simply impossible. 


CHAPTEH X. 

tillie’s plot peospers — geidley’s warn- 
ing. 

Tillie asked a few more questions as to 
the position of the Major’s bedroom, and 
the number of inmates of the house, and 
then, after warmly thanking the girls for 
the purchases they had made, took leave, 
with the cloud again on her brow and her 
eyes bent on the ground, as was usual with 
her when meditating on her wrongs. 

Not being Kemmler’s wife, she had the 
bitter knowledge that at any moment he 
could leave her, and if his wife was really 
dead, as he believed, he could marry Lizzie, 
as she had no doubt the pretty laundress 
intended he should; and he could do it, too, 
without her, who had been so much to him, 
being allowed to utter a single protest. 

Tillie was haunted at times by a sulky 
demon, but of late that demon had taken 
sole possession of her, and she listened 
eagerly to its suggestions, resolutely shutting 
her eyes on all things else. 

‘‘I’ll put him out of her reach,” she re- 
solved, “and spoil her plans forever. He 

( 85 ) 


86 kemmlee; oe, the fatal chaie. 

won’t have me any longer, and lie shan’t 
have her either. And, besides, he can’t go 
against his fate — if he was born to be shot 
dead, why, he won’t never be hanged;” and 
having settled the matter in this stoical 
fashion, Tillie tried hard to shut out the 
thought of what the world would be to her 
with the man who had been her lover gone 
out of it, but did not succeed very well. 

If it had been possible, she would rather 
have had Lizzie removed; but she lacked the 
courage to do that herself, and guessed that 
Kemmler would immediately retaliate by 
killing her, and then Ben Rucker would sus- 
pect her. The whole position was a muddle, 
and her brain fairly reeled in trying to dis- 
cover a way out of that muddle. 

“It was just fate that took me to the 
Major’s house, and made the servants speak 
about loaded weapons,” she consolingly re- 
flected; “and if Kemmler gets shot, it’ll be 
just fate too. Rich folks can get their 
troubles settled in court, so why shouldn’t 
poor folks get theirs settled the best way 
they can? This’ll be a new style of doing 
it — that’s all;” and she laughed gleefully 
over her invention. 

In thinking of her audacious scheme, and 
wondering how she was going to make 


tillie’s plot prospers. 87 

Kemmler fall in with her plan, the time 
passed rapidly, and she found herself almost 
at her own door before she realized she was 
anywhere near there; and, to her great 
surprise, on entering the living-room, she 
found Kemmler seated moodily before the 
fire. 

“What! ” she exclaimed, “ ain’t you work- 
ing to-day?” 

“No,” was the brief reply. 

“Are you sick? ” 

“No; tired of work — no use.” 

“Hal you’ve thrown up your job?” 

-“Yes.” 

She was all smiles now, and her heart beat 
so hard and fast she was afraid he would 
notice her excitement. 

“Well,” she exclaimed, after a pause to 
catch her breath, ‘ ‘ if you care to listen to 
what I’ve got to tell, there won’t be any need 
of your working, for one while, at least.” 

“ What is it? ” he asked, curiously; and in 
the most seductive way possible, she told 
him of the grand discovery she had made in 
one of the suburbs of the city. 

“It’s a great big house, with not another 
near it,” she volubly explained; “and there’s 
nobody in it just now but the two servants 
and the master, and he’s a feeble old man 


88 KEMMLEK; OE, THE FATAL CHAIE. 

that could be managed with one finger. 
The servants sleep in the chamber over the 
kitchen, but the old man occupies a room 
in the main house, and has gold and silver 
and bonds enough in a safe there to stock 
a big national bank. There’s no mistake 
about it.” 

“ Humph !” grunted Kemmler. ‘Hf he 
keeps the stuff in his* bedroom, that shows 
that he expects the place to be tried, and 
he’s sure to have a revolver or so under his 
pillow.” 

“ Hot a revolver nor anything in the way 
of fire-arms in the whole house; I made sure 
of that,” said Tillie, with great elation. 
“There was a bell- wire from his room to the 
kitchen, but I got up and 6ut it, while I was 
left alone for a minute; so you’re safe from 
any harm from that.” 

Kemmler was reckless. His terrible dis- 
appointment had upset him and made him 
desperate, and he felt like being revenged on 
all the world; so he heard Tillie’s story and 
assurances with manifest satisfaction. He did 
not dream of treachery on the part of his 
mistress, as he had an utter contempt for 
women’s powers generally, and for Tillie’s 
in particular. 

“The job might be done,” he hopefully 


tillie’s plot peospees. 89 

returned. “I’m half inclined to take hold 
of it; and I suppose I could get Curley Crane 
and Ben Rucker to go in with me.” 

TiUie did not relish the proposal at all; 
first, because she was a little afraid of Cur- 
ley Crane, and, second, because Rucker had 
always shown a particular preference for 
herself, and there would be great danger of 
his getting shot instead of Kemmler. 

“What’s the need of sharing it with 
others^’ she remarked. “You could surely 
manage an old man single-handed, and I 
could watch outside and see that nobody 
came near.” 

“No, no; a woman pottering about would 
be sure to bring mischief,”- said Kemmler, 
with brutal frankness and an air of experience. 
“I must have my old pal, Curley, and I’ve a 
mind to take Ben along too. As for you, 
you’d better keep away as far as you can. 
One never knows what may happen;” and he 
laughed gleefully, to intimate that some 
things might happen, outside of the pro- 
posed robbery altogether, which might not 
be exactly agreeable to Tillie. Dullness of 
intellect has never been laid to the charge of 
her sex, and even Tillie saw the point, and 
gave a writhe of a smile. 

“Don’t do that!” cried .Kemmler, horri- 


90 kemmleb; or, the fatal chair. 

bly startled. ‘‘When you sulk you’re bad 
enough, but when you smile you frighten 
me.” 

“I wish I could smile all the time, then,” 
was Tillie’s amiable response; whereupon her 
frank partner assured her that he would 
soon be where neither her frown nor her smile 
could affect his tender feelings. 

“I believe you will,” said Tillie, showing 
every tooth in her head in a smile more start- 
ling than the first; and if Kemmler had only 
believed himself capable of uttering a proph- 
ecy, he would have been more frightened than 
he was; but he never dreamed of possessing 
such a power, and merely told Tillie to restrain 
her smiles or get out of his sight. 

If this good woman had one fault more de- 
veloped than another, it was impatience. 
Having decided on the only means of curing 
Kemmler of his faults — and at the same 
time tasting the sweets of revenge herself — 
she was in a hurry to see her plan carried 
out. She would have had Kemmler go off 
that very night to meet his fate; but it 
chanced that he was unable to find Curley, 
and he resolutely refused to stir a step in the 
matter till his old pal had been found and 
was ready to join him in the venture. 

“ Whatever I get I like Curley to share,” 


tillie’s plot peospers. 91 

he generously remarked, and then he had 
barely time to check Tillie in one of her 
Satanic smiles. He had never seen her in 
such a good humor before, and he didn’t 
know how to appreciate the blessing. 

The next day he found Curley, who had al- 
ready intimated to him that he was going to do 
the square thing with regard to the Russell 
job; and they very soon came to an under- 
standing as to the new affair, the robbery 
being set for Friday night — ^three nights 
off. 

At first Curley was startled on learning 
that the house to be entered was in the Black 
Rock suburb — the next, indeed, to the Rus- 
sell’ s; but a moment’s refiection satisfied 
him that it was just as well so — in fact 
better. 

As the days slowly crawled away, Tillie’ s 
excitement increased till she could hardly 
get a wink of sleep at night, or speak by day 
of anything but the grand plunder Kemm- 
ler was to carry off from the Major’s house 
at Black Rock. 

When Friday came, and the three advent- 
urers had perfected their plans— for Ben 
Rucker had entered heart and soul into the 
scheme — Tillie’ s feverish anxiety got to its 
height, and she would have given anything 


92 kemmler; or, the fatal ohair. 

for a friendly ear into which she could have 
safely breathed her hopes and fears. 

While she was in this condition, she 
chanced to meet Gridley on Main Street, and 
the change in the expression of her face was 
so striking that he stopped to speak to her. 

The clouded brow wore a queer shade of 
anxiety, and each cheek — usually sallow as 
that of a corpse — was a bright pink, while 
the eyes were bloodshot and restless as those 
of a sufferer from delirium tremens; yet 
there was no trace of drink about her voice 
or breath or manner, and the detective was 
forced to conclude that she had had a differ- 
ence with her partner, so he politely inquired 
after his health. 

‘‘ Oh, he’s well enough,” was the careless 
reply. 

“Is he still in the meat-market?” asked 
Gridley. 

“No, he’s quit work; but he won’ t trouble 
you long,” she indiscreetly let out. 

“Oh, indeed! Is he ill?” was hastily 
asked. 

“No; but he may be before long.” 

“Ah, I see; you have been quarreling, and 
you mean to pitch into him for it.” 

“No, I shan’t lay a hand on him, nor ask 
anyone else to do so. If anything happens 


tillie’s plot prospers. 


93 


to him, it will be his own fault;’’ and the 
woman’s wicked smile seemed to express a 
hope that something would happen to him. 

Gridley looked down on the vixenish face 
and trembling fingers and bloodshot eyes, 
and thought that he would sooner have a 
tiger in the jungle for an enemy than this 
reckless woman. 

“Look here, Tillie,” he said at last, “if 
you mean mischief to Kemmler you shouldn’t 
have told me anything about it. If anything 
happens to him now, I shall be sure to re- 
member it against you.” 

“I dare say you will, but you couldn’t 
touch me. I’ve taken good care of that,” 
she defiantly returned; and then she whisked 
off, afraid, perhaps, that she might commit 
herself by revealing more. 


CHAPTER XI. 

A BISASTEOUS FAILUEE — KATE KELLEY 
TUEKS BETEOTIVE. 

Detective Gridley had no particular regard 
for Kemmler, except that he had noticed 
there were some good points abont him. 
He was a careless and reckless sort of being, 
but he was sometimes kind to dogs, and the 
detective had once seen him even go so far 
as to pull a child out from under a horse’s 
hoofs, thus, perhaps, saving its life. Then, 
too, he remembered how he had been affected 
by the sight of Lizzie Lansing, and what an 
influence she had unconsciously gained over 
him, and although he didn’t know how that 
affair had turned out, nor why Kemmler had 
left the meat-market, he was not unwilling 
to do him a good turn; so when he met him 
a little later, in the lower part of the city, 
he stopped him. A shade of concern crossed 
Kemmler’ s face, but it quickly vanished 
when the detective said: 

“ What is wrong with Tillie just nowl ” 

‘‘Humph! I don’t know,” was the care- 
less answer, in a tone which implied that he 
didn’t care, either. 


( 94 ) 


A DISASTROUS FAILURE. 95 

think she’s mad,” Grridley ventured to 
suggest. 

‘‘Oh, she always is; that’s nothing new,” 
he returned, with a curl of the lip. 

“ Well, I should , say to you to beware of 
her, for she looks as if she could run a knife 
into you before you could wink an eye.” 

“ Pooh! I’m not afraid of her; I could pick 
her up with one hand and shake her teeth 
out, and then stow her safely away in my 
pocket,” he carelessly answered as he turned 
away. 

“Well, I’ve warned you,” the detective 
persisted; but Kemmler only smiled and 
lounged on his way. 

Had Tillie simply wanted Kemmler shut 
up in prison, she would have told Gridley of 
the projected robbery, and then let her vic- 
tim walk into the trap; but it was his life, 
not his imprisonment, she longed for, so she 
had remained silent. 

Kemmler, therefore, was greatly relieved 
when the detective made no allusion to the 
Black Rock plant, and never tried to stop 
him, nor hinted at his project. Perhaps if 
he had known what awaited him and his 
pals, he might have preferred the officer’s 
handcuffs and the most uncomfortable cell 
in the lock-up. 


96 kemmlee; oe, the fatal chaie. 

Five or six hours later, he and Curley and 
Ben Rucker made their way by different 
routes to Black Rock, and met in the garden 
at the back of Major Walcot’s house. 

Kemmler had strictly enjoined Tillie to 
remain at home, but she could no more have 
remained still than a dead leaf could help 
fluttering in a gale of wind. Blood-red 
shadows flickered before her eyes, and her 
brain seemed full of voices, all urging her to 
go out to that secluded spot, and at least 
hear the shots flred. 

Nothing but the report of the fire-arms, 
she felt, could clear her brain and make her 
feel calm and composed. It was like going 
to an execution, at which a man stands before 
you in full health and strength one minute, 
and the next is, before your very eyes, con- 
verted into cold clay. 

Tillie allowed Kemmler to get down the 
steps and reach the next corner, and then 
followed, just keejping his familiar figure in 
sight, and no more. 

On reaching the vicinity of the Major’s 
home, she began to wonder how many more 
beats his heart had yet to make, and whether 
he would bleed much, or have strength to 
rush out and die at her feet; and once a 
voice startling and strange among the others 


A DISASTKOUS FAILUEE. 97 

shouted out, ‘‘ Save him! save him! it’s not 
too late yet.” But before she could hurry 
on and catch up with him, Kemmler had 
joined two other shadows in the garden 
behind the house, and the chance was gone. 

‘‘It’s his fate,” she sighed, in answer to 
the clamoring voices that seemed to call to 
her, “He’s got to be shot, and nobody could 
prevent it.” 

The house-breakers had no difficulty what- 
ever in getting into the house, for the lower 
sash of one of the windows had only to be 
pushed up. But, as the window rose, Cur- 
ley, whose ears were sharp, fancied he heard 
the tinkle of a bell in a room above. 

‘ ‘ What’ s thatf ’ he whispered. ‘ ‘ I thought 
I heard a bell.” 

“No, no; they’re all asleep hours ago,” 
returned Kemmler. “If you’re afraid, I’ll 
go first.” 

“Nonsensej I’m not afraid,” said Curley, 
following readily enough, “but some folks 
have an awkward trick of fastening wires to 
the windows and leading them to a bell in 
their bedroom.” 

Kemmler derided the idea in this case, 
and they all three swiftly got off their boots, 
and arranged the mode of procedure. Cur- 
ley and Ben were to overpower the Major, 
7 


98 kemmler; or, the fatal chair. 

and Kemmler, who had some experience in 
mastering women, was to tackle the servants. 

That settled, they passed out into the hall, 
and were gliding along as noiselessly as 
shadows, when a step on the stairs made all 
three stand stock still. . 

A faint glimmer of starlight showed them 
a six-foot figure in white descending rap- 
idly, and they had only time to see the long 
barrel of a rifie, when the weapon Was 
leveled and fired among them; while, at 
the same time, and from another direction, 
three or four pistol-shots rang out in rapid 
succession. 

In huddling back, they had quite forgotten 
the open door of the parlor behind them, 
which showed their figures down to the very 
tools and weapons in their hands as clearly 
as if the moon had been shining on them. 

Mingled with the terrific explosions of fire- 
arms was the yell of a man mortally wounded 
and the curses of another, and an instant 
later, Bill Kemmler found himself outside, 
speeding away for dear life, with a stray 
pellet of lead in his left leg and another in 
his shoulder. 

Rucker he had left behind, at his own re- 
quest; for the moment he dropped, he groaned 
out, “I’m done fori” and, for an instant, 


A DISASTEOUS FAILUEE. 


Kemmler thought himself alone, when he 
looked round and saw Curley dashing 
through the open door leading toward the 
kitchen. 

Kemmler rushed along like mad, and had 
hardly gained the street when he almost 
tumbled over a woman crouching near the 
gateway. 

It was Tillie. 

‘‘I couldn’t keep away,” she breathlessly 
exclaimed. ‘ ‘ Are you hurt? ’ ’ 

‘‘Not much— a couple of pistol-balls in 
me, that’s all,” he sullenly answered. “It’s 
you that brought the bad luck. I told you 
to keep away, and you didn’t. I’ve a good 
mind to kill you for it.” 

“That’s all the thanks I get for being 
anxious about you,” she answered, with the 
old cloud back on her brow, and a mental 
regret that more of the bullets had not struck 
him. 

They spoke little till they reached home, 
when Kemmler briefly remarked that he 
didn’t know what had become of Curley, 
and he feared Rucker was done for. 

“I’m sorry for that,” said Tillie, avoid- 
ing her partner’s eye and looking regretful. 

“Yes, I know you are — you’d rather it 
had been me,” said Kemmler, steadily eying 


100 kemmlee; oe, the fatal chaie. 

her shifting countenance. You said there 
were no fire-arms, but we got shot before we 
were five minutes in the place. I believe you 
wanted us to get shot — me, at least.’’ 

Tillie protested her innocence, and declared 
that she had followed them solely to warn 
them and save them. Kemmler heard it 
all, and appeared to believe it; but his sus- 
picions were aroused, and while he busied 
himself picking the pistol-ball out of his 
leg, he carefully thought out all the circum- 
stances of the case. When done, he was no 
surer than when he began; but the suspicion 
remained, and in the end he resolved to lay 
all the facts before Curley and Kate Kelley 
and get their opinion. 

He would have appealed to G-ridley as to 
what reason he had to apprehend treachery 
on Tillie’ s part, but a wholesome dread of 
being thus implicated with the house-break- 
ing restrained him. Next morning, there- 
fore, he showed no signs of displeasure to 
Tillie, but went off as early as possible to 
Kate’s, where he found Curley quietly seated 
by the fire. 

“Ah, you’re all right, are you?” he said. 
“I didn’t know what had become of you.” 

“ I went out into the kitchen to see who it 
was that was indulging so recklessly in pistol 


A DISASTROUS FAILURE. 101 

practice,’’ returned Curley, with a queer 
laugh. 

“And did you find out? ” 

“I should say so! and I came near finding- 
out to my sorrow.” 

‘ ‘ Who was it then? ’ ’ 

“ It was the house-maid, as resolute a little 
woman as I ever met. She ran before me 
till .she reached the kitchen, where she had 
already lighted the gas, and then, when 1 
was making a break for liberty, jumped be- 
tween me and the door and held me up in 
grand style. 

“ ‘ Up with your hands! ’ she cried, point- 
ing the revolver straight at my head, and 
remembering how well she had already used 
it, I promptly obeyed. Then, the cook hav- 
ing come down, she sent her to call the 
Major, and a moment or two later I heard 
him coming. 

“ ‘ Out of the way, Nellie,’ he called, ‘ I 
think I’ll save the State some expense by 
shooting the villain where he stands,’ and 
Nellie stepped one side. 

“ With a bound, I was at the door. How 
it happened to be unfastened, I don’t know; 
but to tear it open was the work of an in- 
stant, and I sprang forth, with rifle-buUets 
and pistol-balls whizzing past me.” 


102 kemmler; or, the fatal chair. 

“And you haven’t got a scratch?” said 
Kemmler. 

“Kot one. How is it with Kucker? ” 

“Dead, or close on to it. I’m afraid. He 
got the rifle-bullet through him.” 

“It’s blamed strange they should have 
been so well prepared to receive us,” said 
Curley, musingly. 

“I think I can explain all that,” returned 
Kemmler, frowning darkly, “that’s what’s 
brought me here. I wanted to talk it over 
with you and Kate,” and then he told them 
his suspicions. 

Kate — such is the high opinion women 
have of each other — promptly declared Tillie 
guilty, and agreed to prove it without a 
moment’s loss of time. 


% 


CHAPTER XII. 

KATE DISCOVEKS THE TEUTH — TILLIE’s CTJH- 
HIHa MOVE — KATE DISAPPEAES. 

Having taken upon herself the office of 
detective, Kate, dressed in her quietest, went 
out to the Major’s residence, and, by asking 
for a fictitious lady who was anxious to 
engage her, she easily got into conversation 
with the plucky house-maid, Nellie, and 
drew from her the whole account of the 
attempted robbery. 

Rucker, she learned, had been removed 
to the hospital, and was not expected to 
live; and Gridley had been there that morn- 
ing, and expressed a belief that he would 
be able soon to lay hands on the other 
burglars. 

A few shrewdly-put inquiries led the 
girl’s mind back to the visit of Tillie, and 
then came the startling information that the 
servants had distinctly told the notion-ped- 
dler of the loaded fire-arms and the cool 
daring and strength of the Major. 

A traitor! a traitor to the core! Kate, 
eager to shout out those delicious womanly 

( 103 ) 


104 kemmler; or, the fatal chair. 

words, ‘‘I told you so!” hurried back to 
Curley and Kemmler, and made known her 
discoveries. 

“I’ll kill her! I’ll go straight home and 
kill her!” was Kemmler’ s furious exclama- 
tion, as soon as his passion would allow him 
to speak; but Kate, and Curley, too, for that 
matter, however much they might think 
that Tillie deserved death, had no wish to be 
mixed up with a murder, or to assist in any 
way in providing the executioner with work, 
and so they set to and proved to the angry 
man that there are punishments worse than 
death, which could be more safely admin- 
istered. 

The result of their counsel, and a little 
private interview with Curley afterward, 
was that Kemmler, instead of appearing 
before Tillie with a naked knife or hatchet 
in his hand, came to her all smiles, carrying 
a little parcel as a present. 

The parcel contained a fine silk shoulder- 
cape and a valuable breastpin, both part of 
the plunder taken from the Kussell house, 
by Curley, on that ever-niemorable night, 
and concealed in a place known only to him, 
but at no great distance from his private 
lodgings. 

Tillie received the presents with every 


KATE DISCOVEES THE TEUTH. 105 

expression of delight, and at once adjusted 
them to her person before the glass, remark- 
ing how well Kemmler had selected them to 
suit her complexion. 

Kemmler’ s plans had been well laid; for, 
with the help of some of Curley’s friends, 
he could now prove that he had been absent 
in Chicago on the night of the robbery of 
the Kussell place; while Tillie, on the other 
hand, had not only been seen in Buffalo by 
more than one credible witness, but in 
the company of Ben Eucker, who, as he 
was dead, or, as good as dead, it would be 
very easy to prove was engaged in the rob- 
bery. 

With a scheme so deeply laid, Kemmler 
ought to have been completely successful, 
and for once in the history of the world a 
man ought to have outwitted a woman; but 
it was not so, and the loser in this fine game 
of hazard should have our sympathy. 

Kemmler left the house to get someone to 
go to the headquarters of the police and 
express an opinion to Gridley that Tillie had 
been engaged in the robbery of the Bussell 
mansion at Black Rock, and while he was 
attending to this little matter, Tillie rapidly 
made up the cape and breastpin into a neat 
parcel and had them conveyed to Kate Kelley, 


106 kemmlek; or, the fatal chair. 

with the words ‘^From W. K.” legibly in- 
scribed on the bundle. 

Thus it came about that while Gridley was 
on his way to Tillie’s quarters, Kate was 
donning the beautiful shoulder-cape and pin, 
and glorying in their richness before the 
glass, and only wanting the presence of the 
giver himself to tell him how gratified she 
was by his thoughtful generosity. 

‘‘Is it Kemmler you want?’’ was Tillie’s 
simple remark, when the detective appeared 
before her. 

“Oh, no; it’s you,” was his polite rejoin- 
der. “Where’s your splendid new cape 
and breastpin that everybody’s talking 
about?” 

“New cape? Humph, I haven’t had one 
for years,” she growled, with a face like 
thunder. “You should go to Lizzie Lansing, 
or Kate Kelley, she’d be more likely to have 
such things now; besides, she was in that 
first affair out at Black Hock — the Russell’s, 
I mean, so you’ll find her well supplied with 
the boodle.” 

“Perhaps Kemmler was in it, too?” the 
detective smilingly suggested. 

“Oh, no; he was in Chicago at the time.” 

Kemmler had casually told her that he 
could prove that beyond question, so she 


KATE DISCOVEES THE TEUTH. 107 

thought it best to assert it as a fact; but 
Gridley affected to receive it with marked 
derision, and after searching the place and 
finding nothing but a bandage stained with 
blood and a damaged pistol-shot, he removed 
Tillie to the police station, and then, at her 
earnest request, went in search of Kate Kel- 
ley, who had long since escaped from her pre- 
vious trouble. 

At the entrance to Kate’s quarters, he met 
Kemmler squarely in the face. He was 
limping slightly, but the detective’s thoughts 
were far from Major Walcot’s case, and he 
failed to notice the lameness. 

Kemmler nodded curtly and turned to as- 
cend to Kate’s rooms, and to his surprise, 
Gridley promptly followed him. 

‘‘I’m going up to see a friend of yours,” 
the detective remarked, in answer to his stare 
of surprise. 

“Oh!” 

“ Yes; Kate Kelley, you understand. Do 
you think I’ll find her in^’ 

‘ ‘ Kate Kelley? She hasn’ t done anything, 
has she?” he exclaimed, stopping short and 
facing the impenetrable officer. 

‘ ‘ I don’ t know till I see her. ’ ’ 

“You’re on the wrong scent for once,” he 
remarked, with some derision. “Dy the 


108 kemmler; or, the fatal chair. 

way,” lie added, ‘‘you’re ’round pretty 
early; been taking anyone to-day? ” 

“No one but your Tillie. I’ ve just bad ber 
locked up.” 

“Ah, I’m glad of that,” be said, with in- 
tense satisfaction. 

“And now I’m after Kate,” the detective 
pleasantly continued. 

Kemmler’ s brow clouded, and be fiercely 
said: 

“ You can’t touch ber. Curley won’t stand 
it, and I know she’s done nothing.” 

Gridley made no reply, and the silence 
seemed to irritate the other. 

“You’U be saying that Curley and I am 
in it, next,” be savagely remarked. 

“Perhaps.” 

“What job is it?” 

“The Russell affair, out at Black Rock.” 

“Oh, that thing,” he responded, in great 
relief. “I’m all right then, for I can prove 
an alibi. I was in Chicago that night.” 

Gridley said no more till they stood before 
Kate, when he instantly remarked: 

‘‘That’s a pretty shoulder-cape and breast- 
pin you’ ve got on. Don’ t say anything about 
them unless you like.” 

He looked at Kemmler, and saw that his 
face expressed a mixture of surprise, dis- 


KATE DISCOVEKS THE TRUTH. 109 

may, and fury; but the look was as nothing 
to that which took its place when Kate sim- 
ply replied: 

‘‘ I got them from Bill, there.” 

From me? ” he roared. “It’s the biggest 
lie ever uttered! ” 

“Well, there’s the paper they came in, 
and you see what’s on it,” she continued, 
holding the wrapper up before his nose. 

“What does it say?” he asked, “you 
know I can neither read nor write.” 

“ ‘From W. K.’ as plain as day,” was the 
reply. 

“By thunder!” he cried, starting back 
with clenched fists, “Tillie has done it! 
Tillie has done me and you, too! I’ll kill 
her this time, as sure as I live to see her 
again. Nothing on earth can save her! ” 

Grridley regarded the man with some sur- 
prise. He had never seen him in such a 
terrible rage before, and on the whole he 
thought him an interesting study. 

But while his attention was thus diverted, 
Kate was not idle, and when he turned to 
look for her a moment later, she was gone, 
and the stolen goods had disappeared with 
her. 

The detective uttered an exclamation of 
impatience and chagrin. Then, as an occur- 


110 kemmler; or, the fatal ohatr. 

rence of some weeks before flashed across 
his mind, he thought he could guess where 
she had taken shelter, and with a hasty in- 
junction to Kemmler not to attempt any 
funny business, he rushed from the room. 


CHAPTER XIII. 


BESSIE, THE NEWS-GTEL — A COWAEDLY DUDE 
— KATE KELLEY TO' THE EESCUE. 

Little Bessie Benson lived in a small attic 
chamber at the very top of the house in 
which Kate Kelley’s quarters were situated. 
Bessie sold newspapers for a living, and up 
to about the time when we first made her 
acquaintance had had a pretty rough life of 
it; but just then — when her fortunes were 
at their lowest ebb — something occurred 
which, in the end, resulted in a change for the 
better. 

It was on a certain night' about the time 
when Curley Crane was leading the detectives 
such a merry dance, and Gridley was standing 
on the dark side of a neighboring street, 
watching for a glimpse of that slippery indi- 
vidual, when he noticed Bessie for the first 
time. 

What particularly attracted his attention 
to her was the fact that she seemed to be 
all shawl — ^that is, a ragged shawl was fast- 
ened somewhere near her head and went 
down as far as it could, and seemed to form 
( 111 ) 


112 kemmlee; oe, the fatal chaie. 

her entire clothing. What was under the 
shawl was a mystery. 

Bessie’s age, the detective concluded, 
might have been anywhere between six and 
ten — for nature seemed to know that there 
was no more shawl left, and kept her small 
— and her voice was a mere croak, doling 
out — ‘‘All th’ evenin’ papers; latest edi- 
tion! ” much like that of a crow or raven 
pleading for food. 

There is a disagreeable sharpness and per- 
sistence about a raven’s croak. It makes 
you think and stop and look, and Bessie’s 
voice had just that peculiarity. 

She was not a whit more attractive to look 
at than a raven; and if some, before passing 
on, bought no paper, but threw her a cent or 
nickel, surely no one was greatly harmed. 

Bessie had no drunken parents at her 
back goading her to beggary; she was sole 
proprietor of herself, her stock in trade — 
and the shawl. Still, she was not a beau- 
tiful object, and no doubt the first thought 
of anyone who saw her thus in the street was 
that she would be better out of the world 
altogether — just as we kick aside a useless 
stone or bit of clay. What possible good 
could she do in the world? and wasn’t she a 
burden to herself and a torment to everyone 


BESSIE, THE HEWS-GIEL. 113 

about ber? That very cry of ‘‘All tb’ even- 
in’ papers; last edition! ” was enough to 
make one sbiver for a week. 

Tbis would be a very fine and exact world 
if some folks only had their way, with all 
the useless and bad people turned out of it 
and only the good left; but somehow these 
exceedingly nice people never do get their 
way. 

As Grridley stood in the shadow of the 
houses and trees, on the dark side of the 
street, watching those passing opposite, a 
drunken dude came out of a club-house 
near by, and to him Bessie fiew as to a 
splendid and promising patron. 

Such fellows often like to see the news, 
and have been known to give a whole nickel, 
and yet take only one newspaper — a clear 
gain of four cents to the seller, to say 
nothing of the enormous profit on the paper 
sold. 

But, alas! dudes are uncertain. Perhaps 
this one was wretched at having lost many 
dollars at cards, or at seeing the bare arm of 
Bessie thrust so suddenly up before him, 
or at the raven-like cry pealing in on his 
refined ear. He thrust her from him, and, 
when she had stumbled and fallen, he nobly 
followed up his new scheme for the suppres- 
8 


114 kemmlee; or, the fatal chair. 

sion of crime by kicking her off the side- 
walk into the gutter. 

As Bessie made no resistance, the dude 
had a triumphant victory, and managed to 
kick her so thoroughly that she thought 
she was kicked clear into the next world. 

Just then, however, when he may have 
been expecting to pose before an admiring 
people, and hold out his head for a laurel 
wreath, another person claimed a share in 
the battle; this was none other than Kate 
Kelley. 

We know pretty well by this time what 
kind of a woman Kate was. We know she 
was strange, and among her other attributes 
we may mention that she was impulsive, and 
sometimes snappish and violent of temper. 
Unlike most of her kind, she shunned female 
society; and although Bessie had long lived 
under the same roof with her, she hardly 
knew her, even by sight. But if there was 
anything on earth she hated, it was a coward 
in the semblance of a man. 

Kate flew at the dude like a hound slipped 
from the leash, seized his collar, burst it, 
tore his lovely scarf, and dashed him back 
against the wall, quicker than one could say 
Jack Eobinson. 

By this time Gridley thought it best to 


BESSIE, THE NEWS-GIEL. 115 

interfere, thinking, otherwise, she might 
finish him. 

She was not a big woman, but she had 
enough fire in her to have outburned Yesu- 
vius; yet the moment the detective touched 
her arm she dropped the dude like a bundle 
of rags, and turned to help the little news- 
girl to her feet. 

“What, Kate, fighting on the street!” 
Gridley exclaimed. “Am I to take you in 
for this?” 

“Bar! take me if you like. Fm not going 
to see a child murdered by a brute like 
that!” she defiantly cried, with a wave of 
the hand which seemed to indicate that she 
was at war with all the world. 

“One of the detective police, by Jove!” 
exclaimed the dude, feeling gingerly of 
his damaged necktie and bruised throat. 
“Deuced lucky that you came along; that 
woman has just attacked me in the most vio- 
lent manner, and tried to rob me of my 
watch and chain. Seize her! ” 

Kate reared herself loftily beside the cow- 
ering news-girl, and for the moment actually 
looked far nobler than the man. 

“He’s a miserable liar!” she answered, 
with wonderful calmness, at the same time 
piercing him with a flash of her eyes. “I 


116 kemmler; or, the fatal chair. 

only pushed him off to prevent his murder- 
ing the girl.” 

‘‘I give her in charge,” persisted the 
dude. ‘‘I have no doubt she’s a thief, and 
attacked me just for robbery. They are 
companions, most likely. Take them away, 
and give them ten years apiece.” 

Gridley had little doubt that Kate was a 
thief at times, and was as eager to take her 
as that flimsy creature was to give her in 
charge; but, fortunately for her, he had seen 
the whole affair. Had it been otherwise, 
nothing could have saved her; for, of course, 
a gentleman is never supposed to lie, while a 
woman like Kate is never supposed to do 
anything else. 

“It’s true, sir,” interposed Bessie, with 
sudden courage. “He kicked me in the 
mouth, and she just pushed him off.” 

Bessie’s mouth was bleeding in confirma- 
tion, for the dude had removed one of her 
teeth, having kindly noticed that she had 
more than she had food for. 

“I saw it all,” said the detective, quietly, 
“and I must take you, sir, for assault.” 

The fellow wondered why the words 
seemed to be addressed to him, and stared 
at the officer incredulously. 

“Me? Not me?” he cried. 


/ 


BESSIE, THE NEWS-aiRL. 117 

‘^Jnst you, and no one else,” answered 
Gridley. 

Then he lost his temper and refused to 
move, and even tried to knock the de- 
tective’s head off in his rage and mortifica- 
tion. At last Gridley had to get help and 
have him borne struggling up the street to 
the police station. 

Kate followed sullenly, according to com- 
mand, while Bessie took her hand and chat- 
tered away cheerily in croaks all the way. 
She seemed to look up to Kate as to a kind 
of angel sent down straight from heaven to 
save her from death. 

Kate received all these demonstrations 
with a snort, being evidently as impervious 
to praise or gratitude as she was to fear. 
The prisoner was duly accused and released 
on bail, and next day fined heavily, though 
he had come to his senses so far as to plead 
guilty. 

Kate had been called, in case of evidence 
being wanted; and as she left, Gridley said 
to her, half jestingly: ‘‘I’ll begetting you 
next.” She merely flashed one of her defiant 
looks upon him, turned her nose up to the 
ceiling, and went her way; but the gesture 
was as good as though she had defied him 
with every word in the English language. 


118 kemmler; or, the fatal chair. 

It may be thought that after being brought 
so strangely together Kate and Bessie would 
become friends. ^Kothing of the kind. Kate 
said she hated the whole human race — men, 
women, and children — and had made up her 
mind to shut up her affections from every 
living creature. A woman when she really 
reaches that condition is the most dangerous 
being in the world. She is worse than a 
Malay running a-muck. No crime appalls 
her; no retaliation on the cruel world seems 
too horrible; no punishment dismays her. 

However it may have been with Kate in 
this particular, it was quite different with 
that small atom of humanity done up in a 
shawl, and known as Bessie, the news-girl. 
She was but a morsel of kickable clay, who 
should doubtless have been out of the world 
long before; but she felt quite a delicious 
warmth in her small heart after being rescued 
by such a grand creature as Kate. She had 
never been rescued before, so the feeling may 
be forgiven. Whenever she saw Kate in the 
hall or on the stairs at home, or anywhere 
in the street, she flitted up to her and clasped 
her Angers round Kate’s repellent hand, and 
croaked out, ‘ ‘ Halloo! ” — which was her form 
of “God bless you!” — with her whole face 
beaming as if it had just been dipped in 


BESSIE, THE HEWS-GIEL. 


119 


i heaven. The strange beaming in the earnest 
little face, so different from that of all others, 
rather pleased Kate, as a glimpse of heaven 
does most of us; but she preferred to keep 
Bessie at arms -length. 

“I know if I let her be much nearer to 
me, rd get so I’d like her, and then I’d lose 
her,” she said to herself, with a dark look 
into the past; “so I’ll keep her off;” and 
she did her best to appear stern and un- 
friendly. 


CHAPTER XIY. 

KATE’S aHIEVAKCE — A FEAEFUL TEAGEDY. 

But Kate was willing to compound with 
herself in the matter of Bessie, and thought 
that there could be no harm in giving the 
news-girl a little help in the shape of cast- 
off clothes of her own. 

Gridley, the detective, noticed the difference 
in Bessie the next time they met; and after 
her usual ‘‘Halloo!” which she bestowed on 
him almost as heartily as on Kate, he asked 
where she got the fine dress, which had been 
shortened for her, not very elegantly, by the 
simple process of tearing a piece off the 
bottom. 

“Kate Kelley,” she murmured, with the 
heavenly shine in her face; and then she 
added, ‘ ‘ Kate’ s a brick. ’ ’ 

The detective could have said something 
different about Kate, but he didn’t. When 
folks believe in anything, however foolishly, 
and get pleasure from the belief, it is almost 
a shame to shatter their idol, he thought. 

Shortly afterward, he feared he must be 
getting old or losing his senses, for he met 
(ISO) 




KATE’S GRIEVANCE. 121 

Bessie with a pair of lady’s boots on— actu- 
ally boots! They were second-hand, to be 
sure, and some inches too long for her, but 
they had good soles and heels on them, and 
would keep out the wet. 

“My! Bessie, what a fine lady you are! ” 
he exclaimed, as she proudly displayed the 
canoes. “ Where did you get them? ” 

“You’ll never guess,” and Bessie posed as 
if she felt certain. 

“ Indeed I can’t. You must be making a 
fortune at the newspaper business. I think 
I’ll give up thief -hunting and try my hand 
at your trade.” 

“No! you’re wrong. It was Kate Kel- 
ley! ” she cried, with a triumphant poke of a 
finger into the detective’s stomach; and then 
she moved off, with a smile on her face big 
enough to have spread over all the world. 

The next time the two met, Bessie had a 
hat on — not a very perfect hat, for no amount 
of coaxing could induce it to take its original 
shape, but one which, nevertheless, formed 
a very good covering for her weather-beaten 
head. 

“Kate Kelley again?” said the detective, 
inquiringly. 

“ Right! you’ve guessed it this time,” she 
answered, with the old tremendously broad 


122 kemmler; or, the fatal chair. 

smile. She’s a jewel, and she’s awful 
good to me. She lives in the same house I 
do. I’ve been in her rooms, and she gives 
me grub sometimes — it’s awful good grub; 
and the other day she gave me a quarter. 
That was to pay my week’s lodgings, ’cause 
I was short.” 

“ She must be very fond of you? ” Gridley 
quietly remarked. 

“Oh, no, she isn’t — at least she says so; 
but perhaps she’s only foolin’. She always 
says: ‘Mind, I hate you all the time — hate 
everybody and everything. I’ve made up 
my mind about that, so I’m not to begin lik- 
ing you.’ That’s just a queer way she has,” 
said Bessie, conclusively. “It don’t mean 
nothin’.” 

“Why does she hate everybody?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“Try to find out, Bessie,” he advised. 
“ It may be well to know.” 

It did not seem to Gridley the best com- 
panionship in the world for Bessie, but to 
have said a word against Kate would have 
been as useless as to abuse the sun. It 
struck him, however, that a little remorse 
might be at the bottom of Kate’s hatred, and 
that she might be in despair as to how she 
could get into a better life. Accordingly, 


KATE’S aRIEVANOE. 


123 


Bessie, the next time she was invited into 
Kate’s quarters, asked her point-blank why 
she hated everybody, her small self included. 

‘‘I don’t exactly hate you,” said Kate, not 
quite able to resist that shining look, ‘‘but 
it"s just this way: I’ m determined not to like 
anybody — not even Curley, nor any of his 
friends, I once liked someone, and he was 
taken away from me, just through some silly 
notion he’d got into his head about turning 
square. He would send back the swag, and 
that beast of a detective, Gil Gridley, very 
soon traced him out, and got him in for nine 
months. That’s what folks get for being 
honest. And that wasn’t all, for just before, 
he got out they took me up for nothing, just 
to keep me out of the way of meeting him; 
and he went off, and I’ve never seen him 
since, and that’s two years ago. Most likely 
he’s dead, and I wish I was too.” 

Kate’s words look very simple and com- 
monplace as they are set down, but the fire 
of her eloquence and passion thrilled her 
small hearer through and through. Still, 
Bessie was not convinced. 

“Did he steal the things?” she asked at 
last, when Kate’s passion had altogether 
drowned itself in a burst of tears. 

“Of course he did.” 


124 kemmlee; or, the fatal chair. 

‘‘Then he deserved to be put in quod,” 
said Bessie, sturdily. She had not many 
ideas, but those she did have she stuck to 
like a limpet to a rock. 

Kate laughed with derisive bitterness. 

“Oh, you fool! what do you know about 
it?” she cried, looking down on Bessie’s 
miserable clothing and famine-gouged cheeks 
in the most sublime contempt. “You’re as 
bad as he was. He took those queer notions, 
and the first thing he got by them was — nine 
months.” 

“Ho one could get nine months for bein’ 
honest,” said Bessie, dogmatically. 

“I tell you did,” vehemently returned 
Kate, firing up like a bull before a red fiag. 
“I tell you this world’s no good but to fight 
in — fight everybody and everything. What 
do you get for honesty but starvation and 
kicks? Didn’t you get nearly killed a few 
days ago?” 

“Yes, but a thief might have been as 
near killed in my place,” answered Bessie, 
“I’ve seen ’em kicked that way.” 

“Oh, you fool!” cried Kate, almost foam- 
ing with impatience and excitement; “you’ll 
stick in the mud all your life. Those who 
have no heart — no feeling — no pity — get on 
best in this world. I will have no heart! ” 


KATE’S GRIEVANCE. 


125 


‘‘Humpli!” exclaimed Bessie, derisively, 
‘‘you only pretend;” and she put a cold 
hand round Kate’s warm arm so lovingly 
that her strange friend whisked it ok 
sharply. 

“ Don’t do thatl ” she commanded. “I’m 
not going to have anyone touch me softly 
and make me like them. I’m going to be a 
devil — a devil all my days.” 

“You’re a very good devil,” remarked 
Bessie, munching deliciously at a glorious 
cream-cake which Kate had just set before 
her. 

“I’ll tell you how my Phil got collared, 
and then you’ll see whether honesty’s best. 
We took a porte-monnaie from a lady’s 
hand-bag, in a crowd in front of a big store, 
and she made a great cry about it, and said 
she had saved the money for something for 
her little boy. There was less than five 
dollars in it, and Phil heard her give her 
address to the cop, and felt soft looking at 
the child’s face, and made up his mind to 
send it back. Well, who saw him drop it 
into the post office but that beastly Gridley; 
and next day, when he heard of the porte- 
monnaie being sent back, he came straight 
here and took Phil, and the woman recog- 
nized him; and he got nine months. That’s 


126 kemmlee; oe, the fatal chaie. 

what you get by being soft and wanting to 
turn square.” 

Bessie looked surprised and grieved. 

“That does seem hard and mean,” she 
said; “and I’m awful sorry for both of 
you.” 

From that day the two seemed more closely 
drawn together, and Kate paid more than 
one visit to the news -girl’s attic chamber. 
She confided in her, too; and when, one day, 
she wanted to give Bessie enough money to 
pay her whole week’s rent, and the child 
remonstrated, fearing that she could ill afford 
to part with so munificent a sum, she sud- 
denly opened an inner door at the back of a 
cupboard and told her to look in. 

What the child saw there was enough 
to make her eyes bulge out with astonish- 
ment. 

“Oh! oh! oh!” she exclaimed; “and is it 
all yours?” 

“Yes, if I want it.” 

“Who gave it to you?” 

“ Curley; that is, hqgave it to me to keep 
for him, and I’m to use all I want of it to 
pay for keeping it safe.” 

The little news-girl went away very 
thoughtful, and the next time she saw Gfrid- 
ley had nothing to say to him about Kate, 


KATE’S aRIEYANOE. 127 

But she was true to her old friend, just the 
same, and ready to die for her. 

The detective, on leaving Kate’s quarters 
when she so suddenly disappeared that day, 
rushed to the foot of the stairs, and after a 
hasty glance around, began mounting them 
two steps at a time. 

At the first landing he met Bessie on her 
way down. He promptly stopped her. 

“I suppose you know Kate’s a thief,” he 
said. ‘‘She’s stolen a shoulder-cape and a 
costly breastpin. Do you know where she 
is?” 

Bessie’s face plainly showed that she did 
know, and that she possessed other important 
information besides. In spite of the most 
desperate efforts on her part, the detective 
read her countenance like a book. 

“ Oh-ho, Bessie! then you do know? Per- 
haps you’ve seen the goods, and have been 
hiding them, and her too? You won’ t say a 
word? Well, I could hardly expect it, and 
I don’t blame you. Kate’s just got away 
from me, but I think I know where to look 
for her; let’s try our luck in your quarters. 
Come up and show me the right door.” 

Bessie stood stock-still, with her heart 
dying within her. She had just left Kate in 
her attic chamber, and had made her lock 


128 kemmler; or, the fatal chair. 

the door on the inside; and now she felt she 
had betrayed the only being who had ever 
in her loneliness shown her kindness, and 
could have torn off her own tell-tale face 
for the treachery. 

Just then a flash of thought came to her, 
and she dashed up the next flight of stairs, 
and so on to the roof. 

The scuttle was closed, but Bessie flew at 
it like a cat, burst it open, and went skim- 
ming along the gutter as swiftly as though 
she had done the thing all her life. She 
reached the dormer-window of her own 
little room just as Gridley thundered at the 
door. The smashing of a pane drew the 
startled occupant to the window. 

“O Kate, Gridley’ s after you about those 
things!” cried Bessie, in an agony of self- 
reproach. ‘ ‘ Come out by the window ; quick ! 
before he breaks in. I can get you off with- 
out his seeing you.” 

Rate threw up the window, and Bessie 
drew back to let her crawl out, forgetting 
for the time being where she was. 

Her bare feet slipped on the wet gutter, 
and she vanished over the edge of the roof 
like a flash. 


CHAPTER XV. 

KEMMLER ENLISTS GRIDLEY’s SYMPATHIES — 
CRAM CRAVEN. 

For one moment Kate Kelley stood spell- 
bound with, horror, and the next she uttered 
shriek upon shriek with such unearthly in- 
tensity that Grridley thought she was being 
murdered, and burst in the door with a 
crash. 

‘‘My God! she’s killed! she pitched over 
the edge of the roof!” she screamed, hurl- 
ing the detective aside like a child, and 
dashing for the door; “and she tried to save 
me! ” 

Bessie’s light form, however, had caught 
among a net- work of clothes-lines in descend- 
ing, and after crashing through these, and 
narrowly escaping Kilcullen’s head, who 
happened to be there, she came down on the 
ground — terribly hurt, but quite conscious. 
Gridley and Kate were down nearly as soon, 
and found Kilcullen and Kemmler gently, 
raising her from the muddy ground. 

“I’m not hurt! I’m not hurt one bit!” 
she eagerly cried, as Kate burst into tears 
and dropped on her knees beside her, kiss- 

9 ' ( 129 ) 


130 kemmler; or, the fatal chair. 

ing her pale face and wreathing her arms 
about her like one who could actually love a 
human being. ‘‘ Tm just a little sore about 
my legs;” and in trying to raise herself to 
put her arms about Kate’s neck, the brave 
little creature fainted away. 

There was no need to call a cab. Kate 
was the cab and horse all in one — a swift 
race-horse — flying up to the hospital at such 
a pace tnat no human detective could ever 
have overtaken her. 

Had Kate been trying to escape, she could 
have done so easily; but she was concerned 
only about Bessie, whose legs were both 
broken — one of them a compound fracture of 
the thigh, which was never likely to be right 
again. 

When Kate had learned the worst, and 
knew that Bessie would not die, she merely 
turned flercely upon Gridley, and said: 

‘‘You are the cause of it all, and I hope 
you will get punished for it. I had nothing 
to do with the robbery at the Bussell place, 
and you know it. Those things were sent 
to me by an enemy, to get Kemmler and me 
into trouble; if you’re worth your salt as a 
detective, you ought to be able to guess who 
it was. They are in poor Bessie’s room now, 
and you’re welcome to them. And now, if 


CEAM CEAVEN. 


131 


you like, you can take me away and lock me 
up. Yes, you can lock me up for years — 
torture me — starve me — do what you like 
with me. I’ll have my revenge yet !” 

‘‘Don’t, Kate, don’t! — it makes my legs 
worse,” cried Bessie, plaintively, from the bed 
in which she had been laid; and Kate’s rage 
and defiance were dispelled at once. 

They had to almost tear her away at last, 
and then no handcuffs or holding were nec- 
essary — Kate walked quietly to police head- 
quarters, thoughtful and subdued; while at 
the same time Kilcullen brought in Kemm- 
ler. 

An hour later both were out on bail, the 
lawyer always employed by Curley having 
promptly attended to the business. 

As Kemmler was passing out of the police 
building he touched Gridley on the arm, and 
drawing him to one side, said: 

“You know well enough this is a piece 
of TiUie’s work, and I hope you’ll bear down 
on her as hard as you can.” 

“I’ll give the matter all the attention it 
deserves,” promised the detective. 

“ I hope you’ll keep her safely under lock 
and key for the present.” 

“There’ll be no danger of her getting 
away,” said the other — “unless someone 


132 kemmler; or, the fatal chair. 

gives bail for her/’ lie added, with a sly 
smile. 

' “Bedad, thin, somewan’s done that same 
already,” volunteered Kilcullen, who had 
sauntered up to the spot where the two were 
standing. 

‘‘What’s that!” exclaimed Gridley, in 
great surprise; “is Tillie Zeigler out on 
bail? ” 

“ She is, thin.” 

“ Who furnished surety?” 

“ Sure, oi don’t know; but it was as mane 
a luckin’ customer as you’d be loikely to 
meet in a day’s walk.” 

“ This means mischief to me,” said Kemm- 
ler, musingly. “I suppose the fellow, who- 
ever he may be, is one of her particular 
friends, and together they’ll concoct some 
scheme to get me into more trouble.” 

“You and Tillie are at swords -points, 
then?” 

“Pretty nearly so; and the Lord only 
knows how it will end.” 

“ I suppose she’s jealous on account of Liz- 
zie Lansing, and perhaps Kate Kelley, too? ” 

“Well, she needn’t be, then; for Lizzie’s 
going to marry another man, and Kate 
wouldn’t look at me only that I’m a sort o’ 
pal to Curley.” 


OEAM OEAYEN. 


133 


“No, I see she’s no real cause to be jeal- 
ous; and for that matter she ought to be will- 
ing to give you the same privilege she enjoys 
herself. She has plenty of male friends, I 
believe?” 

“Yes; there’s Ben Kucker, and Cram Cra- 
ven, and half-a-dozen others. I wish they 
had her, bag and baggage! She’s a terror on 
wheels. I can’t stand much more from her. 
I shall do something desperate — do it in self- 
defense; for she’s driving me to drink — kill- 
ing me by inches, after failing to do it whole- 
sale.” 

“How? What do you mean?” demanded 
the detective, in great astonishment. 

“Why, just this, and I never thought I’d 
tell it to anyone,” he answered, after a cau- 
tious look around; “she tried to poison me 
before my very eyes.” 

“Tut! never! You must have been mis- 
taken. When a man is unhappy, and espe- 
cially when he’s drinking freely, as you ac- 
knowledge yourself you’ve been doing of 
late, his mind gets into a crazed condition, 
and fancies to him become facts.” 

“I know that, for I’ve felt it,” hotly re- 
turned Kemmler; “but this wasn’t a fancy. 
I had a cold, and got her to make me a stiff 
toddy, and she put enough laudanum into 


134 kemmlee; oe, the fatal chaie. 

it to send me to sleep forever. I saw her 
put it in, out of a vial which I found empty 
in her pocket next morning. And I tasted 
the laudanum in* it, and then took a big 
mouthful and pretended to choke over it, 
and spluttered it all out again. Fancy that, 
with her looking at me and wishing me dead 
all the while! ” 

‘‘I can’t believe it. Why should she wish 
you dead? She could leave you at any 
moment if she wanted to, you know.” 

‘ ‘ Yes; but, blast her! she’ s a regular dog in 
the manger; she’s got so she don’t want me 
herself, and she’s bound nobody else shall 
have me. She wants liberty to do as she likes. 
Why shouldn’t she give me the same privi- 
lege? I know the particular fellow she’s got 
her eye on now. It’s that Cram Craven, who, 
I’ll bet, went bail for her. He may be better- 
looking and sharper than I am — I don’t say 
but what he is; but if she wants him, why 
can’t she run away with him without mur- 
dering me?” 

‘‘Why, indeed,” the detective mechanic- 
ally answered. 

“Because,” Kemmler went on bitterly, 
“she can’t bear the thought of my knowing 
a moment’s peace or happiness with anyone 
else. She’d kill me sooner. I know her 


ORAM ORAVEM. 


135 


well, remember. I’ve often wanted to tell 
you about it, but never could make up my 
mind to do so. Now I want you to look out 
for her, and if anything happens to me, 
then’s your time; look well into it, and 
sharp after her, for she’ll have a hand in it, 
sure.” 

‘‘You ought to get rid of her,” Gridley 
suggested, as the other slowly turned to go. 

“ I can’t,” he quickly answered, facing the 
detective again; ‘ ‘ she’ s too cunning for that. 
She won’t be shaken off. When a woman! s 
bad, she’s bad clean through, and that’s her. 
P’r’aps, now that Rucker’s on his last legs, 
if you could ferret out something against 
Craven, and take him and clap him into 
prison for a long stretch, she’d come ’round a 
bit; yes, you might try that, if you’ve a 
mind to help me. It’s not that I care par- 
ticularly for myself, but for Liz — for my 
poor wife’s sake, I’d like' to try to be a bet- 
ter man. 

“ She’s been very sweet of late,” he went 
on, after a pause; “but I’m more afraid of 
her then than when she’s sour, for then I 
know she’s up to some new trick. P’r’aps 
it’s out-and-out murder this time; but if she 
tries that, nothing can save her. I know I’d 
slaughter her right off. I’m a quiet man, as 


136 KEMMLER; OR, THE FATAL CHAIR. 

you very well know, but quiet men are devils 
when they’re roused.” 

He looked very like a devil just then, 
and was so fearfully excited that Gridley 
hastened to assure him that if he could get 
a hold on Craven he would go for him for 
all he was worth, and not let up until he 
had him safe behind the bars. 

“Thanks,” said Kemmler, gloomily. “I 
hope you’ll succeed; but I’m afraid the 
woman will be too much for me. I shall feel 
better now, however, knowing that if she is, 
she’ll get come up with in the end.” 

Gridley did not know Cram Craven, for 
that gentleman had only recently come to 
Buffalo; but, as on several occasions he had 
seen a rather smart-looking fellow with Til- 
lie whom he did not recognize as belonging 
to her particular set, he concluded that this 
must be the man, and a little inquiry assured 
him that he was right. 

Boused a little by Kemmler’ s story, he 
watched Craven more closely when they 
next met. He was really a smart-looking 
fellow, but it was mostly in his dress. His 
face was evil enough, and his eyes were of 
the kind that fall before an officer’s gaze, 
thus indicating that he had certainly been 
in trouble already. 


CRAM CRAVEN. 


137 


It is strange, but as a rule women do not 
run after handsome men. Strength and a 
certain callous dash and daring seem to be 
infinitely more fascinating to them. Craven 
was tall, and had a good carriage and man- 
ner, but that was all. 

Gridley soon found that he worked at 
nothing; and there was a whisper that his 
real line was that of a house-breaker. He 
boldly declared that he received money from 
a relative, and that he was to be married 
soon. He was expert with cards and at 
billiards, and never seemed to be in want of 
money; but as he could neither read nor 
write very well, it was not particularly clear 
where the money came from. 

The detective, growing interested, watched 
him more closely, but never saw him win 
money at either cards or billiards, and his 
hands were so strong and muscular that he 
more than half suspected street robbery was 
his line. The fellow was too cunning and 
guarded, however, to give himself away, and 
Gridley found at last that he could not trip 
him up. 

About the time when he had reached the 
conclusion that Craven was too clever for 
him, a letter came to headquarters addressed 
to himself, but bearing no signature. 


CHAPTEH XVI. 

GEIDLEY IS ASTONISHED — KEMMLER AND 
RARE RODNEY ARE MORE ASTONISHED. 

The anonymous letter denounced Kpmmler 
as a thief and house-breaker, and declared 
that he had thousands of dollars’ worth of 
silks, jewels, and plate hidden away, every 
bit of which, it said, he had got in this way. 

‘‘He looks like a sleepy fool,” the writer 
went on, “but he is cunning enough to cheat 
you under your very nose. He has even 
‘ done ’ me, and I mean to pay him off for it 
soon; so look out.” 

Gridley was not much interested in the 
contents of the letter, the whole of which he 
set down as a stupid and spiteful concoction, 
but the handwriting at once attracted his 
attention. 

It was evidently that of a woman, but 
there had been a painful effort to disguise it 
into that of a man. There was also a great 
deal of flattery of the detective’s “superior 
abilities,” which also betrayed the sex of 
the writer. Women think they have only 
to flatter a man well to blind him, and very 

( 138 ) 


QEIDLEY IS ASTONISHED. 139 

often, to tell tlie trntli, they are not greatly 
mistaken. 

There was no need for the detective to take 
any action in the matter, however, for the 
writer declared that abundant proof of the 
truth of the charge would soon be supplied 
to him. Within a week the second letter 
came, and in it a more specific charge was 
really made. 

Kemmler and a man named Rafe Rodney, 
well known as a convicted thief, the letter 
declared, had broken into a house on Ellicott 
Street, where a woman had been severely 
handled by the villains; and they were to 
divide a portion of the plunder that night at 
eight o’ clock, in Kemmler’ s rooms. 

Now, the only hitch in this information 
was that the house in question was believed 
to have been entered by only one man— at 
least the injured house-keeper had seen only 
one; but there could be no harm in watching 
Kemmler’ s quarters at the time stated, and 
Gridley determined to do so. 

He did not believe the man was guilty; 
but he was really curious to get to the 
bottom of the strange accusation, and, above 
all, at the motive of the writer. 

Long before the time stated, he was in the 
neighborhood of the house where Kemmler 


140 kemmler; or, the fatal chair. 

lived, whicli was as well surrounded as if it 
had been a besieged city. He had two men 
planted in the yard, in the rear; one at each 
side in front; while he and Kilcullen took 
up a position in a room opposite. 

Kemmler lived on the second floor, and 
there was no one on the premises but him- 
self — Tillie having gone out shortly after 
seven o’clock, dressed as for a walk. 

While making his preparations, Gridley 
had reasoned that the very last man he was 
likely to find there would be Kafe Rodney; 
for, supposing him to be the discontented 
one, it was not likely that he would betray 
himself; and, if he were not the traitor, no 
other human being but Kemmler was likely 
to know of his complicity. Either way, the 
detective reasoned, Rafe was safe not to turn 
up, and he was in the very act of saying so 
to Kilcullen, when that distinguished official 
suddenly exclaimed: 

“Bedad, thin! if that’s not him it’s his 
ghost!” and, looking out, Gridley plainly 
saw Rafe Rodney enter Kemmler’ s door, 
bearing under one arm a parcel done up in 
brown paper. 

So utterly astounded was the detective 
that, for a moment or two, he could only 
hold on to the window-sill and stare at the 


GRIDLEY 'IS ASTONISHED, 141 

house opposite, more sure of Kodney’s iden- 
tity than his own. Kilcullen, however, was 
not so paralyzed, and he ran nimbly across 
the street and laid his heavy hand on the 
parcel under Rafe’s arm; and the thief 
started round in abject surprise on hearing 
the thundered-out question: ‘‘Now, thin, 
ye vagabond, phat have yez got here? ’’ 

Rafe appeared as horrified and surprised 
when he saw Gridley tumble in after his 
subordinate as that great detective had been 
a moment before, and he dropped the parcel 
with a clank on the fioor, saying: 

“If there’s anything wrong. I’m not in it. 
That parcel was simply given me to bring 
here.” 

“Just so — by a man you don’t know, and 
couldn’t find if you tried to,”/Gridley de- 
risively added, a little surprised at Rodney’s 
vehemence; for it was not his style to make 
much fuss over an arrest. 

“That’s just it. I got a couple of dollars 
for bringing it, and I don’t know th’ cove at 
all,” he repeated, more emphatically than 
before. “I don’t know what’s in it, or any- 
thing about it; but he said Kemmler knew 
all about it, and was expecting it.” 

Kemmler had now appeared from his 
rooms, and to him Gridley turned. 


142 kemmlee; oe, the fatal chaie. 

Do you know anything about this parcel, 
or this man? ’’ 

‘‘I’ve seen Eodney before, but I don’t 
know anything about the parcel,” was the 
simple reply. 

“Nor me, s’elp me Grodl” cried Eodney, 
utterly terrorized. 

They all went into Kemmler’s quarters 
together, and, taking out the last anony- 
mous letter he had received, and pointing to a 
chest of drawers in the room, Gridley asked: 

“What do you keep in those drawers?” 

A flutter of surprise and concern passed 
over Kemmler’s face for the first time, and 
he hesitated a little before answering. 

“In those drawers? Oh, just my own 
things.” 

“ Only your own things? ” 

“Only my own — that’s all.” 

“And you keep them locked, I suppose?” 

“Yes, always locked;” and he set his 
teeth a little as he made the answer. 

“ Tillie never gets into them, then? ” 

“Oh, no; nobody but me; I keep the key, 
and nobody else gets it.” 

“ Very good, then, give me the key.” 

The key was produced from under his 
shirt, it having been suspended from his 
neck by a string. 


GKIDLEY IS ASTONISHED. 143 

I have to take care of it,” he said to the 
detective, significantly, by way of explana- 
tion. 

Gfridley turned at once to the lowest and 
largest drawer, and was about to insert the 
key, when Kemmler interposed. 

‘‘ There’s nothing in that drawer,” he said, 
— ‘^at least nothing but rubbish. I hardly 
ever use it.” i 

Nevertheless, the detective unlocked the 
drawer, and found in it a brown-paper par- 
cel, very much like that which had been 
dropped by Eodney. Both he and Kemmler 
stared at the second parcel in great surprise. 

‘‘I never saw that before,” said Kemm- 
ler, so simply and naturally that Gridley 
was almost convinced of his truthfulness. 
‘‘ Somebody must have put it there.” 

The detective quietly untied the string 
and found inside some plated articles of no 
great value, taken from the house on Ellicott 
Street. He then tied up the parcel again, 
and tried Eodney’ s, which produced some of 
the same set. 

The faces of Eodney and Kemmler, as 
they stared at each other after the opening 
of the parcels, were a queer study, in which 
wrath, mystification, and eager inquiry were 
pretty well mingled. 


144 kemmlee; oe, the fatal chaie. 

‘‘ This is a plant,” said Eodney to the ex- 
butcher. ‘‘You’ve done this for a trick on 
me; tell Gridley it’s a dirty trick.” 

“ ISTo ; it’ s a plot of yours against me, ’ ’ said 
Kemmler, flushing hotly. “It’s well known 
that you’re a thief, and I’m on the square— 
Gridley knows that,” and he turned to him, 
eagerly, but confidently. " 

The detective could only remain silent. 
By Kemmler’ s own confession, no earthly 
being had access to the drawers but himself, 
and Gridley’ s information was that stolen 
articles would be found in that lowest 
drawer, and that Eodney and he were to 
divide the spoils at that hour. 

“For God’s sake, say you don’t think me 
guilty of this crime!” Kemmler implor- 
ingly continued: “You don’t know what 
terrible results may follow, if you fasten 
it upon me.” 

“My own thoughts and opinions have 
nothing to do with my duty,” the detective 
slowly answered. “I’ve got to take you 
both to headquarters, that’s all.” 

Kemmler uttered a bitter curse, and stag- 
gering backward, dropped into a seat. 

“There’s mischief and trickery some- 
where about this,” he said at last. “And I 
shouldn’t wonder if that fiend of a woman 


GEIDLEY IS ASTONISHED. 145 

was at tlie bottom of it all. Wbat are these 
tilings— stolen goods? ’’ 

‘‘It looks like it,” was the cold reply. 

“Then he’s the thief,” cried Rodney, and 
exactly the same words escaped the other at 
the same moment. 

Both were violent, wrathful, and full of 
earnest protestation — a rare display with 
Rodney, who, heretofore, had always taken 
an arrest quite coolly. 

He raged and stormed all the way to head- 
quarters, and so far lost his head as to 
charge Gfridley with the concoction of the 
whole plot. Kemmler was quieter, and 
seemed to be studying the whole case, and 
trying hard to recall events. 

When they were close to the police build- 
ing, he nudged the detective and said, in a 
low, earnest tone: 

“ I think she’s done this; but I can’t con- 
ceive how she got into that drawer, for I 
never left the place without putting little 
Tim Turner, who lives just across the hall, 
on the watch, and I know she never had a 
key. She’ll be there in less than no time 
now, and turn Tim out and break open the 
top drawer, and collar all my papers and 
things. Couldn’t you save them for me? — 
they may be worth something some day.” 

lO 


146 KEM3ILEE; OE, THE FATAL CIIAIE. 

Gfridley whispered to KilcuUen for a mo- 
ment, and the latter turned and ran b ack to 
the house they had just left, where he found 
Tillie Zeigler in the act of kicking the boy 
Tim out at the door. 


CHAPTER XYII. 

THE DETECTIVE FIXES THE GUILT WHEKE IT 
BELONGS. 

Tillie questioned Kilcullen’s right to inter- 
fere with her in any way, and emphasized 
her words by tearing out a handful of his 
hair and another of his red whiskers, and 
finally ran ofi to get someone to help her 
finish him. 

KilcuUen immediately emptied the top 
drawer into a large towel, as he had been 
directed to do, and sending the boy home, 
returned to headquarters with his bundle. 
When Kemmler saw him coming, he gave a 
sigh of relief, for he knew that his valuables, 
for the present, at least, were secure. 

After a brief examination, both he and 
Rodney were locked up, protesting their 
innocence to the last. Their injunctions to 
Gridley before they were taken away, how- 
ever, were characteristic of the men. 

‘‘You needn’t try to help me,” said 
Kemmler, sullenly, “for when a woman like 
that makes up her mind to crush a man, 
she’ll do it — unless she’s crushed herself, 
and if I should undertake that job you 
( 147 ) 


148 kemmlee; ok, the fatal ohaie. 

know how I’d finish it, and then I might be 
in a worse fix than I am now.” 

‘‘ I’m not the man in this affair,” said Rod- 
ney, ‘‘and if you don’t get me off and col- 
lar th’ right one. I’ll say you’ve done it all 
yourself, and just run a knife through your 
heart the first time I see you after I’m out! ” 

About that time, Gil Gridley couldn’t help 
thinking what a nice, comfortable life a de- 
tective has of it! 

Among the papers he found in the bundle 
Kilcullen had brought in, was one in Tillie’s 
handwriting. This he promptly took posses- 
sion of, and handed it to an expert, together 
with the anonymous letters he had received, 
and the decision of the expert was exactly 
what he expected — that they were all from 
the same hand. 

But, even supposing the letters to have 
come from Tillie and that they could prove 
her to be the writer, Kemmler’s position 
must have remained unchanged. A woman 
bearing the relation she did to him would 
naturally be supposed to know his secrets, 
and might as readily betray him from motives 
of revenge as an outsider. 

The letters could certainly not have been 
penned by Craven, for he could little more 
than write his name; but Gridley had a 


THE DETECTIVE FIXES THE GUILT. 149 

strong suspicion that if those plated articles 
had been planted in that chest of drawers 
unknown to Kemmler, Cram Craven had 
been in the plot. Still, so far as he was 
able to learn, Cram had not been near the 
house. Little Tim Turner, however, ad- 
mitted that the night before the arrest, when 
he had been left to keep an eye on things by 
Kemmler, Tillie had sent him on a wild- 
goose errand, which kept him away from 
the place for more than half an hour,^and 
then threatened to murder him if he said 
a word about it to any living being. 

From this discovery, came a queer process 
of mental tracing on the detective’s part. 

Supposing Tillie to have put the articles 
into the drawer during that half-hour, she 
must have got them for the purpose from 
some fence who knew their history; but it 
was hardly likely that she would be intimate 
with a fence, and it is rare indeed for those 
wretches to know anything of the articles 
they buy. The probability, then, was that 
Tillie had got the things from the burglar 
direct. He alone would know their history; 
he alone would appreciate their worthless- 
ness and be ready to part with them for a 
trifle. 

Tillie Zeigler was intimate with but one 


150 kemmler; or, the fatal chair. 

man in that particular line, now that Rucker 
was out of the way; that man was Craven. 
There was but one man known to be in the 
Ellicott 'Street robbery; that man was tall 
and powerful, like Craven — might the man 
not actually be Craven? 

That was something like the detective’s 
mode of reasoning; but, even then, he was 
little nearer the solution. The face of the 
house-breaker had not been sieen by the in- 
jured house-keeper, so he could not expect 
her to identify him. 

With a very slender hope of any good 
result, he went and had a long talk with the 
woman, then convalescent; and the same 
afternoon went and took Craven at his 
lodgings. 

He did not seem surprised, but was so cool 
and defiant in his manner that Gridley sus- 
pected him to be pretty well hedged in. 
There was nothing of a suspicious nature 
about his lodgings, which were neat and 
respectable. On his left hand, he wore two 
rings— one of which was of a deep-red gold, 
and shaped like a heart at that part usually 
occupied by a stone. 

This ring might have been worth two or 
three dollars; but it had a quaint, old-fash- 
ioned look about it which attracted the eye, 


THE DETECTIVE FIXES THE GUILT. 151 

and the detective noticed that it v^as too 
large for the wearer’s finger, and was kept on 
by another and better-fitting ring. 

He first noticed the rings at the prisoner’s 
lodgings; but did not look at the deep-red 
one, particularly, till Craven was delivering 
up his possessions at headquarters, when he 
picked it up and scanned it curiously. 

“ This your ring, Crain? ” he said, casually. 

He started, and then did a very foolish 
thing. - 

‘‘Oh, no; just have it as a loan from a 
friend,” he hurriedly answered. 

He could not name the friend who had so 
obliged him, nor give the faintest idea where 
he was to be found. He did not know where 
his friend had got the ring, or how long he 
had had it, or whether or not he had found 
it. In fact, the ring was a ring of mystery 
to him. 

It was not quite so to the detective; for he 
knew it had been wrenched from an old gen- 
tleman one night, in the upper part of the 
city — along with a watch and chain, and a 
pocket-book weU filled with money— by a 
tall, muscular fellow, aided by a woman. 

He whispered for a moment with his chief, 
and Craven was taken off to the lock-up 
without further questioning. 


152 kemmler; or, the fatal chair. 

The fellow looked pale and angry, and bit 
his lips as he was led away, and it seemed to 
the detective that the sole cause of his fury 
was that queer red-gold ring. 

It happened that the owner of the ring had 
been nearly strangled before he parted with it; 
so he had more to regret than the loss of his 
valuables, for his health had been in a pre- 
carious condition ever since, and the opinion 
of his physician was that he had had a narrow 
escape with his life. 

The old gentleman was sent for, and when 
he reached headquarters. Craven was brought 
into his presence. He could not positively 
identify the thief by his face; he could only 
declare that he had been attacked by a man 
of Craven’s build and dress, and from these 
he thought he was the guilty party. 

But the Ellicott-Street house-keeper could 
do more. She was able to identify Craven, 
not by his face, but by some frayed buttons 
on his coat, which she had noticed when she 
was forced down on her knees before being 
felled senseless. 

Gridley hardly believed that Tillie assisted 
Craven in his street robbery; but, as she was 
known to have been in his company, more or 
less, he took her, as a matter of form, till the 
right woman should turn up. 


THE DETECTIVE FIXES THE GUILT. 153 

In her pocket, when she was arrested, was 
found a small skeleton-key which opened 
all of Kemmler’s drawers perfectly; and as 
the detective was able to trace the making of 
the key to Craven, he had enough evidence 
to procure the discharge of Kemmler, and 
Eafe Rodney also. 

A little later, to Gridley’s deep regret, 
Craven and Tillie were admitted to bail. As 
it afterward proved, however, it was an un- 
fortunate thing for them both. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


CRAM CRAVEN UNFOLDS A PRETTY SCHEME. 

A day or two later, Kemmler informed 
Gridley that Cram Craven had taken up his 
quarters under the same roof with him. 
Indeed, he said, he was no farther away 
than just across the hall, having hired a 
spare room of the Turners. 

“He wants to be near Tillje, I supposed’ 
said the detective, thoughtfully. 

“Yes; I reckon that’s one thing,” was the 
gloomy answer; “and then he wants to be 
where he can get a good chance at me, when 
the right time comes. But what I don’ t quite 
understand is, what he and Turner are up 
to. They are as thick as two thieves to- 
gether.” 

“What’s Turner’s business?” asked the 
detective, curiously. 

“He’s an engraver, when he works; but he 
don’t work much — ^in fact, only when he’s 
obliged to.” 

Gridley started. Quite a number of coun- 
terfeit bank-notes had found their way into 
circulation of late, and he might in this 

( 154 ) 


OEAM CRAVEN UNFOLDS A SCHEME. 165 

unexpected way, lie thought, be about to 
stumble upon the source from whence they 
emanated. 

‘‘Leave this matter to me, Kemmler,’’ he 
said, “and don’t lisp a word that you have 
given me a hint. I will look after your 
friend Craven.” 

He did look after him, and Turner, too. 
He watched them faithfully. He tried to 
surprise them in several ways; he bur^ in 
upon them after midnight, and turned their 
apartments upside down; but they were 
either innocent of the crime he suspected, or 
not to be caught napping. 

When this had happened two or three 
times, and the detective, while on his way 
home one night, was wondering what had 
better be his next move, he suddenly became 
conscious of the fact that some one was fol- 
lowing him. 

He turned sharply, and recognized Craven. 

Now, within the past few days he had 
learned to distrust this man most intensely. 
Cram had let certain remarks drop that had 
reached the detective’s ears. He had said 
that haxtwed all his misfortunes to Gridley, 
and he wanted to see him paid. He had 
declared that he would dance with joy to 
see him lying dead, and that if the oppor- 


156 kemmlee; or, the fatal chair. 

tunity ever offered, lie would gladly put a 
knife into Mm. 

Remembering all this, the detective 
stopped short, and, as the evil man ap- 
proached, warned him to keep off at arms- 
length. 

“What’s th’ matter with you?” growled 
Cram. “ You can trust me.” 

“Yes,” retorted Gridley, ironically, “I 
feel as trustful of you as I would of a tiger 
licking its chops for my blood.” 

‘ ‘ You’ re wrong, ’ ’ urged Craven. ‘ ‘ I want 
to help you.” 

“Oh, you do, eh?” 

“Yes; Ido.” 

“Well, in what way do you want to help 
me? What is it you want to speak about?” 

“It’s about them counterfeit notes, sir,” 
he said, with great humility. “I’m right 
where I’ve had a good chance to find out 
about ’em, an’ I thought you might like to 
collar them that makes ’em. Besides, there’s 
a reward offered by th’ Government, an’ I 
suppose that ’ud come t’ me if th’ counter- 
feiters war caught an’ convicted.” 

This last statement threw Gridley off his 
guard a little, for he knew that Craven 
would have betrayed his own ^andfather to 
make a dollar, or sold his own soul for a 


CEAM CEAVEN UNFOLDS A SCHEME. 157 

glass of whisky. Revenge might move him, 
but avarice absolutely ruled him. 

“Oh, you know the counterfeiter, then?” 
he quickly returned, as his thoughts flashed 
straight to Tom Turner. 

“I do; an’ if you’ll give me your word 
that I’ll get th’ reward, I’ll tell you all I 
know, an’ how you can take th’ villain in 
th’ act.” 

j/ 

Gridley studied his face keenly while he 
spoke, and did not like its expression at all. 
But then Cram was an ugly brute, and to the 
detective his face was repulsive at any time; 
so he gave him the required promise, and 
waited for his grand revelation. 

“I’m afraid to tell it here,” he said, after 
a stealthy look around, “ an’ if I came to the 
office it would be known afore I got home, 
an’ my life wouldn’t be worth a nickel.” 

“It’s not worth a nickel as it is,” the 
detective cheerfully remarked; “but if you 
want to run a knife into me you’d better do 
it here, for I don’t intend to go anywhere 
but home.” 

“Do you think that I would try to injure 
you?” he cried, with a guilty start, which 
he quickly concealed under a snaky smile. 
“Why, th’ reward money ’ud straighten out 
that other matter an’ lift me up for life; an’ 


158 kemmlee; oe, the fatal ohaie. 

I can only get it through you. If you have 
doubts of me, Til take my oath.” 

‘‘Oh, I dare say — swear through a brick 
wall if it would serve your ends,” was the 
impatient answer. ‘ ‘ Leave the oath business 
_ alone, and go on with your story, for I’m in 
a hurry.” 

“ Well, th’ counterfeiter is the man I board 
and lodge with now — you know, for you’ve 
seen me there — Tom Turner.” This answer 
was given with a face like the Sphinx of 
Egypt. 

“Ah! ” and Grridley started a little in spite 
of himself. “ Can you prove that? ” 

“I can’t, for he’s too mighty cunning for 
me; but you can, if you’re not afraid to run 
a little risk. I’ve heard tell that wherever 
there was any danger, G-ridley was the first 
man to face it,” he slyly added, watching the 
detective’ s face like a monkey eying a. juicy 
nut; “but I wouldn’t risk it myself for a 
thousand dollars.” 

“I dare say,” the other promptly returned. 
“I don’t know what it is, but I’d take my 
oath on it.” 

“You see I want Turner booked for a ten- 
years’ stretch at least,” he kindly continued. 
“And — ” 

“And why?” the detective suspiciously 


OEAM CEAYEN tJNFOLDS A SCHEME. 159 

interposed, for there appeared to be no rupt- 
ure between them. 

“Just for his treatment of his poor wife 
and boy. Nobody don’t know nuthin’ about 
it as I do; it’s terrible,” and Craven tried to 
pull a virtuous look on to his evil counte- 
nance, but succeeded very badly. 

Gridley nearly laughed outright; for a / 
greater brute than Craven never lived, and 
the detective felt sure that if Turner really 
was harsh in his family. Cram abetted his 
cruelties. 

‘ ‘ Since when did you decide that he treated 
his wife and boy very badly? ” he mockingly 
asked. 

“Oh, ever since I’ve been there,” he volu- 
bly returned; “but I never hit on a sure 
plan to stop it till this counterfeit business 
came up. Of course, an ordinary detective 
wouldn’t risk anything for that; but they 
say you’re not afraid of nuthin’.” 

“I’m not afraid of your taffy at any rate,” 
and the detective gave* Cram a look that must 
have shown him that he was heartily sick of 
his company. 

‘ ‘ W ell, it’ s worth a little trouble, anyhow, ’ ’ 
he persisted, calmly ignoring the look of 
loathing. “You see Tom prints th’ notes 
with a plate an’ press that don’t fill a box 


160 kemmlee; oe, the fatal chaie. 

twelve inclies square, an’ lie can put th 
whole thing out o’ sight at a moment’s 
notice. I don’t know where he stows it; but 
th’ devil himself couldn’t find it out when 
once it’s hid. You couldn’t break in th’ 
door so quick that he’d not have it out o’ 
sight.” 

Gridley doubted this last statement very 
much; indeed, the whole seemed an elaborate 
fiction, but it did not suit him to say so, and 
he simply rejoined — 

‘‘Then how is it possible to surprise him 
in the very act? You can’t hide me in his 
apartments; for the place is so small that a 
cat couldn’t be concealed.” 

“That’s true enough, sir,” smoothly an- 
swered Craven, with some excitement in his 
tone, “ but all you need is to see him at it. 
If you could swear to that, it wouldn’t 
matter whether you took the plant or not, 
eh?” 

“ That’s so; but how could I see it?” 

“Why, by lookin’ in through the window,” 
said Cram, with his eyes falling before the 
detective’s. 

“What! at that height from the ground? 
You must think I’m pretty long-legged.” 

“ Not at all, sir. It’s pretty well up from 
th’ ground, to be sure; but there’s an empty 


CRAM CRAVEN UNFOLDS A SCHEME. 161 

room two stories higher up, of which I have 
the key, an’ what’s t’ hinder you from gettin’ 
some one t’ lower you with a rope till you’re 
right in front of Turner’s window. He never 
closes his blinds, for there’s nobody to look 
in on them, so you could see it all.” 

The detective stared at Craven in silence, 
asking himself, for the fiftieth time, if the 
fellow was speaking in good faith or in 
treachery. He knew the situation of the 
South Division Street house exactly; but he 
was not a sailor, nor particularly used to 
climbing round the outside of buildings, so 
it was just possible that something might go 
wrong in the proposed descent, and change 
his valued frame into hash on the pavement 
below. 

To hang by a rope from a window, several 
stories from the ground, is not a pleasant 
task; but then the temptation was great. 
Gridley distrusted the man and disliked the 
task; but it would never do to let Cram think 
that he hesitated, so he appeared highly de- 
lighted with the plan, and hastened to arrange 
for putting it into execution on the following 
night. 

Craven declared that he could easily man- 
age to get Turner to print off some of the 
notes the next night, at a certain hour, and 

11 


162 kemmlee; oe, the fatal chaie. 

altogether the capture seemed as nicely ar- 
ranged as a plot in a first-class detective 
story; but Gridley thought it best to give 
his companion just one caution before they 
parted. 

“Look here, Craven,’’ he said, sternly, 
when all was arranged, “I know you bear 
me no good-will; but let me warn you that, 
if there is any treacherous plan to injure me 
under this scheme of yours, you’d better 
think twice before you go on with it, for it 
would be a dear trick for you.” 

“Jove, I believe you there, sir,” he said, 
with a ghastly grin, “I’d deserve ten years 
for it. 

“Yes; and get them, too,” the detective 
added. 

“But then it’s impossible that I should 
do anything,” he continued, “for I’m to be 
out of town for fear of his suspecting me. 
I’ll give you the key of that empty room to- 
morrow, and I’ll be ofi to Albany in the 
afternoon. You can see me off yourself, if 
you like, and then you’ll feel safe.” 

Gridley was on the point of saying that it 
did not matter; but pulled himself up in 
time, and said that he would have him con- 
ducted to the station next day, and have his 
fare paid to Albany. 


CEAM CEAVEN UNFOLDS A SCHEME. 163 ^ 

Cram appeared overjoyed at tlie success of 
his proposal, and no one could have looked 
into his pallid face and evil eyes for a single 
moment without guessing he had a heavy 
stake in the plot. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


TEEAOHERY — THE SEOEET OUT. 

After a night’s reflection, Gridley was less 
in love with Craven’s wonderful plan than 
ever, and the first thing he did, on reaching 
headquarters, was to give Kilcullen an ac- 
count of the interview, and full details of 
the scheme, when, as he had expected, his 
assistant only grinned and whistled aloud. 

‘‘An’, begorra, is it Cram 'Craven that you 
would thrust your loif e to? — him that is said 
to have kilt his own mother to get twinty- 
foive dollars she had in a bag down her 
bosom? Holy Moses! oi wouldn’t thrust th’ 
vagabone th’ length av me own nose.” 

“I dare say not — I wouldn’t for half that 
length,” said Gridley, promptly. 

“It’s a lure— th’ whole thing’s a lure an’ 
a snare,” said Kilcullen; “he wants to break 
into some place while you’re hangin’ by a 
rope, chasin’ a wild goose along th’ ground, 
wid me a-holdin’ th’ end av th’ rope, an’ 
feelin’ ready to dhrop yez every minute. If 
yez thry that, there’ll be a hole in th’ pave- 
ment afore mornin’ under Turner’s window, 

( 164 ) 


TEEACHEEY — THE SEOEET OUT. 165 

an’ you’ll be in it. Bedad, it’s a wondher 
th’ villin didn’t ax yez to creep down th’ 
cbiniley, which, would have been just as 
aisy, an’ a deal safer.” 

‘‘ Oh, I think I can take care of myself,” 
Gridley lightly answered. ‘^I’ll choose my 
own rope, and tie you to the upper end of 
it, and I’ll warrant neither it nor you will 
give way, unless you wish to take the post 
of danger at the lower end? ” 

‘‘Does a pig want to run himself agin th’ 
butcher’s knife?” cried KilcuUen, drawing 
back with great alacrity. 

“No; but you’re not a pig, surely?” 
“Begorra, oi am, thin,” he knowingly an- 
swered, “more by token, oi’m not a married 
man loike yersilf, so oi’m not tired av me 
loife. An’ oi remimber that onct ye said oi 
war good at holdin’ on to things; so me place 
is at th’ top av th’ rope, a-holdin on to that. 
If anything happens, oi’ll see yez buried 
dacent, an’ tell everybody that ye never 
tould th’ truth when a lie came handier.” - 
“Whist! Mickey, whist!” rejoined Grid- 
ley, laughingly, “or I’ll pull you over after 
me.” 

“ Faith, you’re wicked enough to thry it,” 
returned the other, “but oi’d cut th’ rope 
afore oi was half-way down.” 


166 kemmlee; oe, the fatal ohaie. 

A little to Gridley’s surprise, Craven duly 
met him at the appointed place about noon, 
and handed over the key of the empty room. 
The detective then went with him to the rail- 
way station, and paid for his ticket, and saw 
him off by the Albany train. 

He did not go to Albany, however, but got 
out at the first station and took a ticket back 
to Buffalo, on the plea that he had forgotten 
some of his baggage. 

Quite unconscious of this movement on 
Craven’s part, the detective was on his way 
home about six o’clock that evening, when 
he became conscious of a patter of soft feet 
behind him, and, looking round in the dark- 
ness, found close to him a thin, white 
face and a faded suit of dark-colored clothes, 
which, from its movements, indicated that a 
boy was inside. 

The boy was panting with the exertion of 
keeping up with the detective’s very rapid 
strides, and was as pale as death. Instead 
of looking at the officer, he turned and looked 
back and round on every side, as if fearful 
of being watched, and then came up close 
and put a thin, clutching hand on Gridley’s 
arm, and drew him in toward the shadow of 
the houses. 

‘‘Oh, Mr. Gridley,” he whispered, fear- 


TEEAOHERY — THE SECEET OUT. 167 

fully, ‘‘come into a passage-way, for certain 
sure they’d murder me if they knew I’d 
spoken to you.” 

The detective obeyed dubiously, for now 
he recognized the trembling atom as the boy 
he’d seen in Kemmler’s quarters and at the 
late examination, and knew he must be 
Turner’s son. 

“What’s wrong, Tim?” he asked, think- 
ing his father, or Tillie Zeigler had been at 
him again. 

“Nothing, sir — nothing to me,” he hur- 
riedly answered, “ but don’t come out of the 
house to-night, for you’re to be killed. Don’t 
ask me how, for I daresn’t tell— and, indeed, 
I don’t know myself; but keep in the 
house.” 

“Who’s to kill me, Tim?” asked the de- 
tective, startled in spite of himself. “Is it 
your father?” 

“Oh, no; that wouldn’t do, for he’d be 
caught and hanged for it,” said the fright- 
ened boy, actually holding on to Gridley to 
keep from dropping at his feet. “I heard 
them speakin’ of it last night when they 
thought I was asleep; an’ says I to myself, 

‘ Gridley saved me once from being killed, 
when a fellow that was drunk; ah’ had the 
black devil in him, was poundin’ me, an’ 


168 kemmler; or, the fatal chair. 

I’ll go and tell him, though they kill me 
for it.’ ” 

“ Who were they that were speaking?” 

‘‘Just — just father an’ Craven; an’ — an’ 
Mrs. Hort; she’s in it, too.” 

“Mrs. who?” 

“Mrs. Hort. She that lives opposite, on 
the same floor with us — she an’ her husband 
an’ the little girl — them you took up the 
other day.” 

“ Oh, you mean Kemmler’ s woman. I re- 
member now, they’ve been living under the 
name of Hort. And so she’s in it, is she?” 

“Yes, she’s in anything that Cram’s in.” 

“Ah! and so it’s he that’s to do it, eh?” 
and the detective felt something of a shock 
as he put the question. 

“Ho, no, sir; none of them’s to do it, I 
think, for it wouldn’t be safe. It’s the rope 
that’s to do it.” 

“The rope?” 

“Yes, sir; that’s all I know. I heard 
them say you was always a- wantin’ to give 
them th’ rope, an’ they would give it to you 
instead, an’ th’ rope would get all th’ 
blame. An’ they laughed — oh, if you’d 
only heard them — ’specially Mrs. Hort; an’ 
I was tremblin’ so that I was afeard they’d 
hear th’ bed shake.” 


TEEACHEEY — THE SECEET OUT. 169 

To say that, Gridley was staggered, would 
not describe the feeling; indeed, a sensation 
of cold ice running up and down his spine, 
and the rising of the hair on his head, was 
more like it. 

The shock came not so much from the nar- 
row escape as from the discovery of Craven’s 
treachery. Even yet he was at a loss to un- 
derstand how the smooth-tongued villain 
could accomplish his death when he was 
more than two hundred miles away, and that 
by means of a rope he had never seen, and 
was not likely to handle; but of the murder- 
ous intention the detective had no doubt 
whatever. 

“Well, Tim,” he said at last, “I’m glad 
you told me of this, and none of them shall 
know anything about it; so run home as fast 
as your legs will carry you, for fear they 
may suspect something.” 

“Then you won’t go out to-night?” he 
eagerly asked. 

“Oh, yes; I must go out to-night, but I 
don’t think they will do me any harm.” 

“They will, sir — they will,” he implor- 
ingly rejoined. “I heard them say that th’ 
newspapers to-morrow would be full of it, 
and every one of them would have ‘ The Mur- 
der of Detective Gridley’ in big head-lines.” 


170 kemmlee; oe, the fatal ohaie. 

“Oh, but there’s no fear of that, Tim,” 
said the officer, cheerily; “nobody is killed 
off in this world so long as they’re of any 
use. You’d have been killed long ago but 
for that; so off with you now, and don’t fret 
about me. But stop a moment,” and he put 
his hand in his pocket, when the boy in- 
stantly shrank back, holding up one of his 
little, cold hands. 

“JSTo, no, sir; nothing of that kind,” he 
cried. “I didn’t warn you for money, but 
just to save your life; ” and he slipped away 
into the darkness as swiftly and softly as he 
had come. 

“Merciful powers! what a narrow es- 
cape!” was the detective’s first thought, as 
he resumed his walk homeward. He had 
been in danger before, but never pulled back 
with such a shock, and he was rather poor 
company for himself or anyone else for the 
rest of the evening. 

Twelve o’clock was the hour fixed by Cra- 
ven for the detective’s descent from the 
upper window; but now that Gridley knew 
of the villain’s treachery, there was no 
reason why he should stick to that or any 
other hour. The whole story of Turner 
being engaged in counterfeiting was prob- 
ably an invention, and there being no coun- 


TEEAOHERY — THE SECKET OUT. 171 

terfeiters to take, there was no need of the 
grand suspension act at all. 

But though he had no intention of losing 
his life, the detective had become anxious to 
know what their plan was, and also to fix 
the crime upon their heads. He therefore 
returned to headquarters shortly after ten 
o’clock, and considerably surprised Kilcul- 
len by producing a suit of old clothes, a hat, 
a quantity of straw, and a not very strong 
rope, all of which he made up into one 
bundle, and then requesting his assistant to 
follow him, they made their way to the 
empty room in the house on South Division 
Street. 

“If ye mane to go down hangin’ by that 
ould clothes-line,” Kilcullen observed, after 
an expressive whistle, “oi hope ye’ll make 
yer will first, leavin’ all to me.” 

“What, my widow, too?” asked Gridley, 
slyly. 

“Ho, not your widow; all barrin’ th’ 
widow,” he quickly corrected. “Your 
widow would be no use to a handsome 
young bachelor loike me; but, begorra, if 
’twas much oi found you’d left me, oi’d 
make short work av quittin’ th’ detective 
business, an’ oi’d start off on a grand time 
th’ very day afther yer berryin’.” 


172 kemmler; oe, the fatal chair. 

They now made a careful reconnoissance of 
the premises, and soon satisfied themselves 
that the Turner family, at least, were at 
home; and to pr^ent mistakes, Gridley 
placed two men at the door of their apart- 
ments, and two more at the foot of the stairs, 
while he and Kilcullen again silently took 
possession of the empty rooin above. 

The gas had been cut off, but they had a 
candle and two lanterns, so Gridley pro- 
ceeded to fill up the old suit of clothes with 
the straw, carefully weighting the trousers 
with some bricks and stones which he found 
in the fire-place, Kilcullen looking on and 
assisting with open eyes and mouth. 

‘‘Well, phat’s this purty scare-crow for?’’ 
he at length asked. 

“ Why, don’t you know your old friend 
and beloved companion, Gil Gridley?” that 
distinguished official reproachfully inquired, 
as he stood the stuffed figure up to put the 
hat on its pillow head. 

“Faith, oi do, for it’s meself that has 
knowed all along that he war a man av 
straw,” he quickly retorted, “ wid feet loike 
bricks an’ a face that ’ud frighten th’ crows. 
Oi suppose he’s t’ dangle at th’ end av that 
rope. Oi’ve been expectin’ all me loife that 
he’d come to that.” 


TEEACHEEY — THE SEOEET OUT. 173 

‘‘Nothing of the kind/’ returned the 
other, hastily. “He’s only going down on a 
tour of investigation, like the lighted candle 
which miners lower into a pit when there’s 
danger. If he gets shot as a burglar, he’ll 
have the proud consciousness of having done 
his duty to the last.” 

They carried the figure to the window, and 
hoisted it out, after securing it under the 
arms with the rope. 

The window immediately below was dark; 
but Turner’s, directly under that, showed 
a light. 

The figure slid slowly down past the dark 
window and had got opposite Turner’s, when 
a hand came swiftly out of the dark window, 
and, with two quick slashes of a sharp knife, 
severed the rope. 

The figure disappeared like a fiash, and in- 
stantly they heard the dull crash of the 
mufiled bricks and stone on the pavement 
far below. 

“The secret’s out!” shouted Gridley to 
Kilcullen. “Down with you, and arrest 
anyone who comes out of the dark room be- 
low! ” 


CHAPTEE XX. 

THE detective’s VICTOEY — KEMMLER AHD 
TILLIE HAVE WORDS. 

Down-stairs dashed Kilcullen, just in time 
to tumble right on top of a flying man, to 
whom he clung like grim death till assist- 
ance came from below, when the fugitive was 
secured, and proved to be Cram Craven. 

He was deathly pale, and sweating in 
every pore, and made such a desperate at- 
tempt to escape, even after he was hand- 
cuffed, that he had to be beaten all over the 
head, almost into insensibility, before he 
would submit quietly and allow them to 
take him to the police station. 

While he was being secured, another flg- 
ure, draped in a large, dark-colored shawl, 
apparently, suddenly emerged from the 
room, and before anyone could lay hands 
upon it, or even catch a glimpse of its face, 
had disappeared and was lost in the dark- 
ness. 

Meantime, Gridley, with the other two 
men, had burst into Turner’s apartments, 
only to And them in darkness, and Turner 
and his family all in bed. 

( 174 ) 


THE detective’s viotoey. 175 

A candle had been newly extinguished, 
for the smell of it still lingered; yet Turner 
snored heavily, and took so much waking 
that they had to pour a large pitcher of 
water over him. Even then he scarcely 
swore, but sleepily asked what was wrong. 

He asked that and no more, for the next 
instant he caught sight of Gridley, perfectly 
well and uninjured, and then his jaw fell, 
his eyes almost started out of his head, and 
he uttered one short sentence, which need 
not be set down, and nearly dropped to the 
floor. 

His wife and little Tim had really been 
asleep, but were wide-awake enough then, 
and were told that they must dress and go to 
the station with the rest. There was not a 
trace of counterfeiting apparatus in the place, 
and probably never had been, but in the 
fertile brain of Cram Craven. 

Kemmler’s apartments, too, were visited, 
but he was out; and TiUie, to all appearance, 
was sleeping the sleep of the innocent and 
just in her own bed. 

The only other occupant of the room was 
her little four-year-old daughter, who was 
certainly fast asleep; but across the foot of 
the bed lay a large, dark-colored shawl, as if 
it had been hastily thrown there. Gridley’ s 


176 kemmler; or, the fatal chair. 

first impulse was to take the woman at once; 
but on second thought he concluded not to 
disturb her, but to pay her a visit later, and 
question her as if he had no suspicion of her 
guilt. 

At the police station, Craven was very 
voluble in his protests at being arrested for 
nothing, and noisily demanded to know 
what was the charge against him. He was, 
indeed, in the act of so protesting when 
Gridley entered with the second batch of 
prisoners. 

He saw the prisoners first; but when Grid- 
ley entered in their wake, he started back 
with a yell of fear that nearly lifted the roof, 
clutching feebly at the nearest man, and 
then fell in a fit on the floor. 

It took him several days to recover, and 
even then his brain seemed to be in an un- 
hinged state; for no one explained to him 
how that miraculous detective had fallen 
from such a height on a hard pavement, and 
then walked a lot of prisoners to the police 
station as coolly as if he had just been dis- 
posing of a nice supper. 

The day after the capture, with the help 
of little Tim, they raised a board in the 
flooring under the bed in the room occupied 
by Craven, and found stowed away there a 




THE detective’s VICTOEY. 177 

quantity of solid silver — some of it taken 
from tke house on Ellicott Street, but the 
greater part from a fine residence in the 
suburbs of the city. 

It is very doubtful whether Turner had 
anything to do with either robbery; but he, 
as well as Craven, went up for them all the 
same. And Cram was found guilty of the 
other charges pending against him, so that 
in the end he went into retirement for fifteen 
long years, at least. 

Gridley was so busy all through the day fol- 
lowing the capture that he had no time to give 
to Tillie, and, indeed, he scarcely thought of 
her;'but Kilcullen, on unexpectedly meeting 
Kemmler, managed to put in a word for her, 
which possibly produced serious results. 

Kemmler had been out aU night with 
Curley Crane and some others, and had been 
drinking heavily; hence, he was not in the 
best of humors. He was about to enter the 
front door of the house where he lived, 
when he saw Kilcullen coming out. 

‘‘What in thunder are you doing here?” 
he exclaimed, stopping short and frowning 
darkly. 

“Arrah,” replied the Irishman, “oi’ve 
been lukin’ afther your good neighbors — an’ 
your own woman as well, bedad.” 

12 


178 kemmlee; oe, the fatal chaie. 

What has she been up to now? 

‘‘Oh, nothin’ much, only murdherin’ 
Gridley wid th’ rest.” 

‘ ‘ Mur — murdering Gridley ? ’ ’ 

“Yis — ^helpin’ th’ others do it, oi say. 
Come an’ see for yerself; oi’m jest goin’ for 
to secure th’ cowld corpse.” 

Almost in a daze, Kemmler followed him 
round to the rear, where the first object to 
meet his eyes was the semblance of a man 
stretched on the pavement under the Turn- 
ers’ window, and to all appearance stone 
dead. 

No sooner had they caught sight of it than 
Kilcullen put on the most wo-begone coun- 
tenance, and burst into a regular Irish wail, 
such as would have done credit to the wilds 
of Connaught. 

“ Ee-oo-ah-ow! Ach, Gil Gridley, me dear 
b’y, why did ye die?” 

This he continued so long that Kemmler 
began to grow impatient, and felt inclined to 
shove a brick into his mouth to stop the 
howling. 

At length, when the detective gave him 
half a chance, he sharply demanded: 

“Is it really Gil Gridley you’re making 
such a fuss about? and, if so, how did they 
kill him?” 


THE detective’s VICTORY. 179 

‘‘Why, oi war a-lowerin’ him out av that 
window up there, two stories above your 
floor, so that he could luk in at the Turners’ 
window an’ see phat they war up to, when 
Cram Craven an’ your woman, who war in 
that room between, rached out — or wan av 
them did — an’ cut th’ rope. Ach, Gil, me 
poor b’y, why did ye die? Why did ye die? ” 

“Thunder! I should think it was plain 
enough why he died. A fall like that on 
these hard stones was enough to break every 
bone in his body. But where is Tillie? 
Have you arrested her? ” 

“Ho, no, that will be attended to later; 
she’ll not get away.” 

“Ho, by Jove, I’ll bet she won’t; for if 
she attempts it. I’ll take her in myself,” and 
without so much as a farewell look at the 
defunct detective, he turned on his heel and 
entered the house. 

He went straight up to his own apart- 
ments, and bursting into the living-room, 
threw himself into a chair. 

TiUie— or Matilda, for that was her given 
name— was at the breakfast-table with her 
little girl. 

She started when she saw him, knowing 
very well that there would be a row; for it 
was quite evident that he had been drinking 


180 kemmler; or, the fatal ohair. 

heavily, and that he had heard something 
against her. 

“What deviltry have you been up to 
now?’’ he demanded, savagely. “There’s no 
use talking, I shall have to kill you, and 
that, too, mighty soon.” 

“ I haven’t been up to any deviltry that I 
know of,” said Tillie, sullenly. 

“Haven’t, eh? Then you wasn’t with 
Craven in that room upstairs last night? ” 

“No.” 

“And you don’t know who murdered 
Gridley?” 

She started violently. 

“ I didn’t know he was murdered. I don’t 
believe he is murdered.” 

“ Then go round and look under Turner’ s 
window. The body’s lying there yet. I’ve 
just seen it.” 

“Then it wasn’t Cram that killed him,” 
she said, quickly, “for after that G-ridley 
was in these very rooms.” 

“After that? After what?” 

Tillie flushed and remained silent. 

Kemmler drew his chair up to the table 
and tried to eat. It was no use, and his 
inability to swallow food made him savage. 

He got up from the table, went to the cup- 
board, and took down his whisky-bottle. 


THE detective’s VICTORY. 


181 


Who’s been at this? ” he demanded. “ I 
left it more than half full yesterday, and 
now it’s nearly empty. Who’s, been at it, 
Isay?” 

“I — I don’t know.” 

‘‘You lie; you know your miserable lover. 
Cram Craven, who more than half lives on 
me, as did your other lover, Ben Bucker, 
till he got the bullet in him that you intend- 
ed for me, has been drinking it. But he’ll 
have to swing now for Gridley’s murder, and 
as Ben died last night, you’ll have to provide 
yourself with new lovers — unless they hang 
you with Craven, as I expect they will.” 

“Is — is Ben Bucker really dead?” asked 
Tillie, hesitatingly. 

“Yes, he is. Don’ t you wish it was me? ’ ’ 

“You do your best to make me wish so. 
You hate me so thoroughly, you sometimes 
make me hate you in return.” 

‘ ‘ What makes me hate you? You’ ve been 
my very worst enemy ever since I first met 
you. I might have been happy with my 
wife to-day but for you.” 

“Pshaw, what nonsense! ” 

“Nonsense ? What do you mean? ” 

“Just what I say. You know as well as 
I do that you didn’t leave Ida Porter for me. 
You left her because, two days after your 


182 kemmler; or, the fatal chair. 

marriage, you found she had been married 
before, and that she was in plain words a 
worthless woman. Whether anybody else 
knows that or not, you and I know it, and 
there’s no use your pretending to me?'^ 

“ Who told you any such story as that?” 

“You did yourself, when you were drunk, 
and then I set to work and found it all out 
for myself. Oh, I know a thing or two; and 
among other things, I know that you are a 
contemptible fool. You fell in love with 
Lizzie Lansing because she looked like Ida. 
Pshaw, she’s not a whit better than Ida. 
She told you she was going to get married. 
Is she married? Just teU me that, if you 
can.” 

“Don’t you say a word against Lizzie,” 
said Kemmler, threateningly. Then, calling 
the child, “Here, sis, go and tell little Tim 
I want him.” 

“Tim ain’t there,” said Tillie, shortly. 

“Where is he, then? ” 

“ The police took him with his father and 
mother for the Gridley affair in the night.” 

“Humph, then I must go myself,” and 
taking the bottle, he went out. 


CHAPTER XXL 


THE MUEDER OF MATILDA ZEIGLEE — DISCOV- 
ERY OF THE MURDER. 

Kemmler did not return till the afternoon, 
when, without speaking to Tillie, he entered 
the bedroom, and throwing off his clothes, 
tumbled into bed. 

It was quite late when he awoke, but get 
ting up, he slowly dressed himself, and 
drahk copiously from the water-pitcher. 
Then sitting down, he bent forward, holding 
his head between his hands. And so the 
hours passed, and it was nearly morning 
again. 

At length he started up, and began search- 
ing for his whisky -bottle again, but could 
not find it; he had forgotten to bring it home 
with him. 

“I must have some drink,’’ he said at 
last, and began feeling in his pockets for 
some money. 

But here he failed, too; his pockets were 
empty. 

‘‘Curse you! ” he screamed at the woman, 
“ you have been robbing me again. You’ve 

( 183 ) 


184 kemmler; oe, the fatal chair. 

been going through my pockets, and have 
taken every cent.” 

“You lie,” retorted Tillie, “you never 
had a cent when you came home.” 

“Didn’t, eh?” 

“No, you didn’t.” 

“Ha! you’ve given yourself away; that’s 
as much as to confess you’ve been through 
my pockets. I’ll lick you now, I told you 
I would if you ever robbed me again, and I 
wHl.” 

“You will, eh?” 

“Yes, I will. I’ve stood more from you 
than any man ever stood from a woman be- 
fore. You’ve tried to get me killed; you’ve 
tried to get me sent up for your last lover’s 
crime; you’ve done all you could to down 
me, and now, when I want a drink the worst 
kind, you’ve left me without^ cent.” 

“It’s a lie!” she said again. “Besides, 
you’ve got plenty of money in the house, 
and you know it.” 

“You call me a liar?” he exclaimed, sav- 
agely, and darting forward with clenched 
fist, he knocked her down. 

She rose slowly, and deliberately approach- 
ing, dealt him a blow in tl^e face. 

“Curse you!” he exclaimed, and again he 
struck her. 


THE MUEDER OF MATILDA ZEIGLER. 185 

She hit back, and so they had it hot and 
heavy for awhile, and this was not the first 
time by a good many that blows had been 
exchanged between them. 

At length, Kemmler was roused to fury, 
and dealing her a tremendous blow, sent her 
to the floor, from whence it seemed impossi- 
ble that she could ever rise again. 

Seeing that she was motionless, and still 
mad with rum and passion, he looked eagerly 
about him. 

At last, his eye rested on the hatchet with 
which they split lip their kindling wood, 
and used for other purposes about the house, 
and seizing it, he sprang upon her, and be- 
gan hacking away as though it was his delib- 
erate intention to reduce her to mince- 
meat. 

The woman struggled to a sitting posture, 
and then to her feet, and did her best to de- 
fend herself; but it was of no use, for soon 
she fell exhausted, and only a heavy groan 
escaped her. 

The child began to cry. Kemmler stopped 
long enough to threaten her savagely if she 
didn’t stop her noise, and then continued 
his fiendish work of chopping at the dying 
woman. 

At length, satisfied that she was quite 


186 kemmlek; or, the fatal chair. 

dead, lie stopped, and began to make another 
search for liqnor. 

He found a bottle, and with an exultant 
shout, began to drink, and he kept it up 
until the bottle was empty. Then throwing 
himself across the bed, he was quickly lost 
in oblivion. 

After a time, he must have got up and 
gone out; but he was so thoroughly under 
the - influence of the enormous quantity of 
liquor he had absorbed, that he never knew 
where he went to, or what he did. At last 
he again found himself in the neighborhood 
of the house, and shortly afterward he was a 
prisoner in his own rooms. 

He didn’t quite understand it — didn’t 
quite know what to make of the situation. 
He saw several of his neighbors about him, 
and a number of police officers, among the 
rest, Gridley and Kilcullen, but what they 
were doing there was more than he could 
tell. 

The sight of the first-named detective, 
however, was a shock to him, and did some- 
thing toward sobering him. 

‘‘Th’ deuce!” he muttered, ‘‘what — what 
right you got t’ be here, Gridley? You’re 
dead — murdered, yer know, saw mangled 
body out under Turner’s window, an’ heard 


THE MURDER OF MATILDA ZEIGLER. 187 

that wild Irishman howlin’ like mad over it, 
b’ George.” 

‘‘ Wild Irishman, in(Za^?6,” growled Kilcul- 
len. “ Oi’m wild enough to make yez under- 
sthand that it’s me prisoner ye ai;e.” 

Gridley had paid no attention. He was 
questioning the little girl. 

“And so he knocked her down, did he?” 
he was saying. 

“Yes, sir — with his fist — right in there.” 

“Ah! and what happened then? ” 

“ Papa hit mamma with the hatchet when 
she was lying on the fioor.” 

“ Hal ” exclaimed one of the officers, ‘ ‘ Hort 
is in for it sure.” 

“Hort?” said another, “that isn’t his 
name; his right name ’s Kemmler.” 

“ Well, Hort or Kemmler, he’s sure to go 
out of this world by a fiash of electricity.” 

“By Jove, you’re right,” exclaimed the 
other, “this is the first murder that has 
been committed in the State since the pas- 
sage of the new law, or, at least, since it has 
become operative.” 

Kemmler looked from one to another of 
those about him in a dazed sort of way. 

“Anything to say, Kemmler?” asked a 
police sergeant. 

He turned to the officer, and fixed his 


188 kemmler; or, the fatal chair. 

gaze upon him for a moment, but made no 
answer. 

Kilcullen was guarding him with jealous 
care, and now a policeman drew near. 

Someone spoke again, and the prisoner 
muttered something to himself. 

Kilcullen bent forward eagerly to listen, 
and afterward emphatically declared that 
he had said — ‘‘Yes, I killed her, I wanted 
to kill her, and the sooner I hang, the 
better.” 

“But, bedad,” commented the Irishman, 
“it’s not hangin’ he’ll get, it’s jest th’ ind 
av a wire, wid th’ little red-hot divil av 
electricity runnin’ into him from off it.” 

“Better take him away,” advised Grridley, 
presently. “The sooner he’s under lock 
and key, the better; and some of you see 
that the coroner and police surgeon are sent 
for.” 

The prisoner was at once led away, and 
some fifteen minutes later, the coroner and 
surgeon entered the room together. 

“Is she dead?” inquired the coroner, 
pressing his way forward. 

“I think not,” answered Gridley. 

The doctor approached, felt her pulse, put 
his hand upon her heart, and looked care- 
fully at her eyes. 


THE MUEDEE OF MATILDA ZEIGLEE. 189 

‘‘ No,” he said, at length, “she is not dead; 
but, in my opinion, she will never return to 
consciousness again.” 

“How long will she live?” asked the cor- 
oner. 

“As to that, I am unable to say, very 
likely not more than half an hour, and quite 
possibly until about this time to-morrow. 
She had better be removed to the hospital, 
and the sooner it is done, the better.” 

“ I’ll send for an ambulance at once,” said 
the police sergeant. 

“Do so, and meantime I’ll make a casual 
examination.” 

The sergeant went out, and the doctor set 
to work. 

The woman’s face, arms, and breast were 
covered with blood, and, as we already 
know, she was quite insensible. 

“ I can’t do much here,” said the surgeon, 
after a while; “but the fellow must have 
been a cowardly brute, a fiend, in fact, for I 
have discovered twenty-six distinct gashes 
on the face and head, and five bad wounds 
on the right hand, arm, and shoulder. I tell 
you, gentlemen, she must have defended 
herself desperately against the savage attack 
of her brutal paramour.” 

A little later the ambulance arrived, and 


190 i5:EMMLEE; OE, THE FATAL OHAIE. 

the dying woman was carried out and placed 
in it under the directions of the doctor. 

The coroner, after a few words with Grid- 
ley and the sergeant, also went away. Then 
the detective made a careful search of the 
apartments, and among other things, to his 
great astonishment, found nearly five hun- 
dred dollars in cash in Kemmler’s own room. 

The little girl was taken away and care- 
fully looked after. An ofiicer was left in 
charge of the apartments, and Gridley and 
the others departed, the detective with the 
firm determination to fix the murder exactly 
where it belonged at any cost. 


CHAPTER XXIL 

KEMMLER SENTENCED TO DIE BY THE APPLI- 
CATION OP ELECTRICITY. 

From tlie time of Paul Pinkham’s visit to 
-Buffalo, Gridley and he had kept up a 
pretty regular correspondence with each 
other. And now the first thing Gridley did 
after reaching headquarters was to sit down 
and write Pinkham, giving him all the facts 
of the murder, so far as he knew them, and 
requesting him, if any of Tillie’s relatives 
were alive, to send them on to identify the 
body, for although the woman was not yet 
dead, he well knew she would be in a few 
hours, as the doctor had most emphatically 
declared that she would never come out of 
the comatose state into which she had fallen. 

The letter finished and mailed, Gridley 
went to hunt up Curley Crane, in order to 
learn as much as possible about Kemmler’s 
movements during the twenty-four hours 
preceding the murder. 

He found Curley in possession of little 
Bessie Benson’s attic chamber, for which he 
was paying the rent, in order to keep it for 
the little girl, should she ever want it again. 

( 191 ) 


192 kemmler; or, the fatal chair. 

‘‘Why, what’s the matter, Curley?” 
asked the detective. “Why do I find you 
so many fiights above Kate Kelley’s com- 
fortable quarters to-day? Is it more attract- 
ive to you up here than down below? ” 

“Under the circumstances, yes,” was the 
reply. “You see Kate’s turning serious. 
She hasn’t been the same woman since Bes- 
sie got hurt, and every time she goes to the 
hospital to visit her the little one preaches 
to her better than a parson could, and it’s 
telling on her fast. Why, Gfridley, she 
won’t look at me now; says it ain’t right. 
Says she’s going to try to hunt up her old 
lover, Phil Fenton, and if she can find him, 
says she will marry him and settle down like 
honest folks and take little Bessie to live 
with them — adopt her, in short.” 

“ She says that, does she? ” 

“ Yes; and if she can find Phil, she’ll do 
it, by Jove.” 

“Good! Then I’ll go to work and help 
her to find him. And, what’s more. I’ll 
manage in some way to give them a fair start 
in life.” 

Curley regarded the detective with aston- 
ishment and incredulity. 

“ Bo you really mean it? ” he asked. 

“Yes; and look here, Curley, if you’ll 


KEMMLEE SENTENCED. 


193 


give up your present course and make it 
right with poor Clara Clinton, who not only 
believes in you, let me tell you, but fairly 
worships you, I’ll help you out of the 
trouble that’ s hanging over you, and through 
a rich and influential friend in Colorado, 
will get you a position which, with your 
talents, will be the stepping-stone to a fort- 
une.” 

‘‘ You’ll really do that? ” 

“ I will, not only because I feel a deep in- 
terest in that poor, confiding girl, but be- 
cause I believe you were meant for better 
things than to be a blackleg and an out- 
law.” 

Curley winced, and starting up, he ex- 
claimed: 

‘‘ Do you know where she is? ” 

‘‘Ido.” 

“ Shall you see her soon?” 

“ If I do not, I can get word to her.” 

“Then do so, and tell her I’m ready to 
make her my honest wife whenever she says 
the word, and that I will keep her and treat 
her like a queen. She’s too good for me, the 
Lord knows.” 

“Thank you, Curley; those words have 
made me your firm friend forever. And now 
I want to talk a little about Hort, or Kemm- 

13 




194 kemmler; or, the fatal chair. 

ler, rather. You’ve heard the news, I sup- 
pose?” 

‘‘I heard that he’d been chopping up that 
woman of his. Is she dead? ” 

“ She’s as good as dead — merely a breath- 
ing corpse, that’s all.” 

‘‘The deuce! What a fiend he is when 
he’s roused!” 

“Yes; what do you know about his move- 
ments yesterday? ” 

“The most I know is, that he was fear- 
fully drunk, and for that matter, I’m afraid 
I took more than was good for me myself. 
But, mind you, all that’s going to be stopped 
now, and if Clara is willing to overlook the 
past. I’ll try to make her a model husband.” 

“That’s the talk, Curley, and now the 
only thing is to stick to it.” 

“Oh, I’ll do that, never fear.” 

After some further questioning, Gridley 
having found out all Curley had to tell, went 
away. 

A little later, he presented himself at the 
jail, and tried to get the prisoner to talk to 
him; but Kemmler refused to have anything 
to say about the murder. He seemed to re- 
gard Gridley with awe, and once or twice 
asked him if he was really alive, or only a 
spirit, and put so many other strange ques- 


KEMMLEE SENTENCED. 195 

tions that the detective began to think he 
had gone insane. 

The next day Tillie died, and, as the 
doctor had predicted, without even for a 
single moment regaining consciousness, and 
she was therefore unable to make an ante- 
mortem statement. 

A day or so later, Paul Pinkham arrived 
in Buffalo, accompanied by two persons. 
These were a man named Tripner, a Phila- 
delphia huckster, who, he said, was Tillie’s 
father, and the other was Henry Kemmler, 
the murderer’s brother, who had married a 
sister of the unfortunate woman. 

They- were taken to the hospital where 
Tillie had died, and both fully identified the 
body as that of Matilda Tripner Zeigler. 

Tillie had really been quite a prepossessing 
woman — that is to say, when she was at her 
best and held her passions undei^ control. 
She was a brunette, quite stylish looking, 
and of good figure, her weight being about 
one hundred and thirty -five pounds. 

But she was dead; and for her all the 
storms, the passions, the pains, the miseries, 
and the disappointments, as well as the few 
meager joys and triumphs of life, were over 
— over forever more! 

Paul Pinkham lingered in Buffalo and 


/ 


196 kemmler; or, the fatal chair. 

Gridley visited the prisoner most persist- 
ently. He still refused to say anything 
about the murder, but on all other matters 
concerning Tillie and himself he talked 
freely enough. 

In referring to one of these visits, while 
speaking with Pinkham, Gridley observed: 

‘‘Kemmler had a good deal to say about 
his wife to-day, and he tried to justify him- 
self for leaving her by saying that he heard 
just after the ceremony that she had been 
married before, when she had passed herself 
off on him as a maiden. More than that, he 
said, he had heard stories about her to the 
effect that she was no better than she should 
be.” 

“He further said,” the detective went on, 
“that he firmly believed it all at the time, and 
most of it, indeed, until he had that strange 
dream, since which he had felt sure she 
must be innocent.” 

“I’ve been looking into her history a little 
more carefully since I was here,” said Pink- 
ham, “and Pm afraid that a good deal that 
has been said about her is true. I am even 
inclined to believe in the previous marriage.” 

“Then you had heard nothing of these 
stories before^’ 

“Oh, yes, I had heard certain hints; but I 


KEMMLER SENTENCED. 197 

thought they had been set afloat by Tillie, 
in order to turn Kemmler against his wife 
and secure him to herself, and so did not, 
perhaps, give them the attention they de- 
served.” 

‘‘Then you do not now think Tillie was 
guilty of anything of the kind? ” 

“No, I do not.” 

“Is this woman, Ida Porter, still living?” 

“ Oh, yes. And now let me ask what has 
become of her counterpart, Lizzie Lansing?” 

“She is quite ill— wretched in mind and 
body — just at this time. You see she was 
engaged to marry a rather good-looking fel- 
low, whom she believed in thoroughly, while, 
in point of fact, he was a worthless charac- 
ter — indeed, he was one of Tillie’ s favored 
lovers, and was seriously wounded while 
breaking into a house next door to where 
Lizzie was living, from the effects of which 
wound he has just died.” 

“Poor girl! but his taking off will be a 
good thing for her in the end.” 

“Yes, I believe it will. At any rate, I 
shall keep my eye on her and do all in my 
power to help her to keep her courage up, 
for I believe she is worthy of any assistance 
I can give her.” 

“That’s right; do what you can for her. 


198 kemmlee; oe, the fatal chaie. 

my friend, and I hope I shall hear good 
news of her by and by.” 

A little later G-ridley and some other offi- 
cials were with Kemmler, when he begged 
earnestly for a little whisky. The detective, 
seeing the chance this offered, hinted that 
it would be a good plan to send out for 
some. 

The fact was, he was very anxious to get a 
full confession from the prisoner, for, as the 
only eye-witness of the terrible crime was 
the little four-year-old girl, whose evidence, 
of course, could not be admitted, as it was 
not to be supposed that she understood the 
nature of an oath, they must, unless he con- 
fessed, depend wholly on circumstantial 
evidence, to do which would doubtless in- 
volve a long trial and the risk of an acquittal, 
or a disagreement of the Jury at least. 

The liquor was sent for, and all seemed 
very Jolly, but Kemmler did the major part 
of the drinking. 

At length, little by little, the conversation 
was skillfully turned on the murder, and 
the prisoner, becoming confidential, con- 
fessed everything. That settled it. The 
detective had triumphed. 

‘‘But, Kemmler,” said one of those pres- 
ent, when the wretched man had finished liis 


KEMMLER SENTENCED. 


199 


story, ‘‘what made yon kill her? I can’t 
understand that, after all.” 

“I did it because I wanted to,” was the 
answer. “Gridley here knows .that I had 
enough against her — that I had borne all a 
man could bear. Yes, I wanted to kill her, 
and I suppose the sooner I hang the better.” 

The coroner’s Jury had pronounced Kemm- 
ler a murderer, and in due time after the 
inquest he was taken from the jail to the 
police court and arraigned on a charge of 
murder in the first degree. 

He knew what he had confessed and what 
his position was, so he pleaded guilty, say- 
ing he had no use for a lawyer, and didn’t 
want one bothering round. 

Judge Childs sentenced him to die within 
the week beginning June 24, 1889, by the 
application of electricity, as provided by the 
code, at the Auburn State’s Prison. Coun- 
selor Hatch took exceptions to the sentence, 
upon the ground that the punishment was 
cruel and unusual and contrary to the spirit 
of the Constitution. And there the matter 
rested for a time. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

THE FIGHT FOR THE MURDERER’S tiFE — THE 
DEATH-CHAMBER. 

On the evening of the day Kemmler was 
sentenced to death, Curley Crane abruptly 
made his appearance in Kate Kelley’s sitting- 
room, where that energetic lady was walking 
up and down the floor in a state of great 
mental excitement. 

‘‘What’s the matter, Kate?” he asked. 
“Haven’t received any bad news, I hope? ” 

“ Oh, no; no bad news; good, rather. 
Just think of it! Gridley’s got on the track 
of Phil at last, and I may expect to see him 
any day now, he says.” 

“ Ah, that is good news. I hope I shall 
have a chance to wish you both much joy. 
How’s little Bessie?” 

“She’s almost well, thank heaven. She 
will not be a cripple, as the doctors feared at 
first; but in the course of a few months, at 
most, her limbs will be as good and strong 
as anybody’s.” 

“I’m delighted to hear it. When wiU 
she leave the hospital?” 

“Either to-night or to-morrow. Gridley 
( 200 ) 


FIGHT FOR THE MURDERER’S LIFE. 201 

has promised to attend to all the necessary 
business for me, and he will bring her here 
as soon as he can find time to go for her.” 

‘‘ Gridley is a pretty good fellow, after all. 
He has been a kind friend to both you and 
me, Kate.” 

‘‘I’ll say that for sure when he gives me 
back Phil and Bessie.” 

“You still intend to adopt the child? ” 

“Of course. I shall never let her leave 
me again, you may be sure. And if Gridley 
gets Phil a chance out West somewhere, I 
hope to see the time when she’ll have no 
cause to be ashamed of her adopted parents.” 

“I’m going into the adopting business a 
little myself,” said Curley, presently. 

“What do you mean?” asked Kate, in 
some surprise. 

“ I suppose you know Clara and I are 
coming together again in a day or two? ” 

“Yes, Gridley hinted as much, and I’m 
glad of it. The child is well, I hope?” 

“Yes, doing nicely; and so is its mother, 
thank heaven.” 

“You are going West, too, are you not?” 

“Yes, to Colorado, and we are going to 
take little Tim Turner with us — the boy 
Kemmler thought so much of, and who, per- 
haps, saved Gridley’ s life.” 


203 kemmlee; oe, the fatal chaie. 

‘^I am glad to hear it — very glad; but 
what’s to become of his mother'^’ 

‘‘For the present, she is to live with her 
brother; but when we get thoroughly estab- 
lished out there, and Tim is a little bit older, 
we shall have her come out to him. And 
now I want to speak of another matter, if 
you are willing? ” 

“ What is it? ” asked Kate, curiously. 

“You’ve decided to turn square, and so 
have I — that is, so far as it is possible to do 
so. If we’re going to be square, we can’t 
use that stuff in the secret receptacle back 
of your cupboard; but as the party is dead 
to whom it rightly belonged, and as it might 
go hard with us if we attempted to give it up 
to the authorities, I propose that we use it 
for charity.” 

“I’m agreeable, if it is a worthy object 
you propose to bestow it upon,” said Kate, 
cordially. 

“ As to that, there might be a difference of 
opinions,” returned Curley; “but as both 
you and I may be, in some measure, to blame 
for the trouble the party is now in — as he 
may have received some encouragement from 
us to keep on in his evil course, and even to 
treat that poor unfortunate woman more 
harshly than he otherwise would — ” 


FIGHT FOE THE MURDEEER’S LIFE. 203 

“All! you mean Kemmler, do you? ” 

“Yes, I mean Kemmler.’’ 

“He has been sentenced, hasn’t he?” 

“Yes.” 

“What do you propose to do for him? ” 

“ Save his life, if I can.” 

“But surely there’s no chance for that? ” 

“ A bigger chance than you think. Listen. 
The dynamo people are bent upon saving 
him, not that they care a picayune for Kemm- 
ler; but they hate to have their electric ma- 
chines get too bad a reputation, and every 
death caused by one of them adds to their 
evil repute.” 

“Ah, I see. And so, if you join hands 
with them, you think you may help him? ” 

“Yes; we will delay matters at any rate, 
and in the end we may save his life. Be- 
sides that, will get rid of the stuff in yonder 
in a way that will greatly ease our con- 
sciences, and that, to me, is no small consid- 
eration.” 

“You express my feelings exactly. In- 
deed, I fully agree with you, and give my 
hearty approval to your plan. I haven’t 
forgotten that it was I who helped to set him 
against that woman, after the Major Walcot 
affair.” 

“We both felt pretty bitter toward her 


204 kemmler; or, the fatal chair. 

about that time; and now, as you are willing, 
I will go and see my lawyer,” and Curley 
hastened away. 

From that time, the lawyers were pretty 
busy. People wondered who it was that 
took such an interest in a brutal murderer 
like Kemmler, and many guesses were made. 
Of course, it was readily surmised that the 
dynamo folks had a hand in the matter; but 
the whole truth — ^the real truth, was never 
known. 

Kemmler reached Auburn, Friday, May 
24th. A writ of habeas corpus was served 
upon Warden Durston Just before the fatal 
day arrived; and upon June 25th, an exhaust- 
ive argument was heard by County Judge 
Day. 

The whole argument was as to the consti- 
tutionality of the law substituting electricity 
for the gibbet, upon the ground of the for- 
mer being cruel and unusual. Judge Day 
dismissed the writ, and the case was taken 
to the general term of the Supreme Court at 
Rochester, where the constitutionality of the 
law was upheld. 

The last resort was the Court of Appeals, 
and here, too, the decision was adverse to 
Kemmler’ s counsel. 

The criminal was re-sentenced to die within 


FIGHT FOR THE MURDERER’S LIFE. 205 

the week beginning April 28, 1890. It is 
likely he would have been executed on April 
30th; but, on the 29th inst., a United States 
writ of habeas corpus was served on the 
warden, and the case was then carried to 
the United States Supreme Court, on the 
point of constitutionality of the law on the 
same grounds as those urged in the State 
courts. 

On the 26th of April, that is, three days 
before the United States writ was served. 
Detective Gridley paid Kemmler what he 
then supposed would be his farewell visit. 

Since entering the Auburn Prison, Kemm- 
ler had been trying to learn to read and 
write, and Mrs. Durston, the warden’s wife, 
had, as she believed, converted him to Chris- 
tianity. 

Gridley found that very few persons were 
permitted to see the prisoner, that the Kev. 
O. C. Houghton, D. D., who ministered to 
the condemned man, was the only outsider; 
but he learned that Mrs. Durston was in the 
habit of calling upon him two or three times 
a day. 

When Kemmler first reached Auburn 
under the sentence of death, he was bold, 
defiant, and brutal. He boasted of his awful 
crime, and was never tired of gloating over it. 


206 kemmleb; ob, the fatal chaie. 

Mrs. Durston came to Mm like an angel of 
mercy. The sweet, devoted woman told him 
the old, old story of Christ on the cross. He 
listened only to scoff. But the good woman 
never wearied in the work. 

When Kemmler first entered the prison, 
he was densely ignorant, as we already know. 
He could neither read nor write. He seemed 
absolutely without moral sense. 

With a woman’s keen perception, Mrs. 
Durston realized that she must first cultivate 
the sluggish mind. It was a, difficult task, 
but she never lost heart. After many weeks, 
the pupil began to make progress. He was, 
at last, able to read fairly well, and his writ- 
ing was quite plain. 

A week or two before the detective’s visit, 
a change had come over the man. Before 
that, he had steadily refused to see a minis- 
ter; but then he asked his keeper, Daniel 
McHaughton, to send him one. 

MclS'aughton suggested that his own pas- 
tor. Doctor Houghton, be called; and since 
that time the minister had been with the 
murderer every day. 

Gridley found the condemned man sitting 
in his cell, reading, with much difficulty, a 
child’s Bible. He seemed pleased to see the 
detective, and talked with him pretty freely. 


FIGHT FOE THE MUEDEEEE’S LIFE. 207 

He said, among other things, that he was 
glad to die by electricity. 

‘‘It is much better to die that way than 
by hanging,” he said. 

“You are taking it coolly, Pm glad to 
see,” remarked Gridley. 

“Yes,” was the emphatic reply; “you 
may tell anyone that asks about me that the 
death I have to suffer has no terrors for me.” 

“What he says, I firmly believe is true,” 
remarked Keeper McNaughton. “ He seems 
to await death with calmness — a calmness 
^ which at times gives way to a strange eager- 
ness for the fatal moment. As for fear, he 
has none.” 

“How does he spend his time? ” 

“He practices writing a good deal. When 
he is tired of that, he goes to the window 
and watches the convicts working in the 
yu-rd, the people coming into the prison, and 
those walking by on the street.” 

The detective did not prolong his visit; 
but told the prisoner, if there was a chance, 
he might see him again. 

“Would you like to see the chamber of 
death?” asked the warden, as they left the 
cell together. “ It is close by, and he knows 
it, but it does not trouble him. His only 
fear is that he may suffer.” 


208 kemmler; or, the fatal chair. 

“I suppose he has no idea how much 
noise his coming death by electricity has 
made in the world? ” 

‘‘N^o; he does not know how fierce the 
legal battles have been, nor what the scien- 
tific and other learned men have said about 
him, and it is just as well that it is so.” 

‘‘I suppose the preparations for the terri- 
ble event are going forward all the time?” 

‘‘Yes; quietly but surely.” 

Then, as they entered the death-chamber 
and advanced to a high-backed oaken chair, 
such as is often seen in the halls of the 
rich, he added: 

‘ ‘ This is the chair of death. It was adopted 
by me after studying the question very 
thoroughly. You will notice that it is made 
very strong indeed. You see the high back- 
piece runs up to the top of a man’s head 
when he is seated in the chair. This makes 
a comfortable rest for the head and back. 

“ The condemned man is to sit naturally 
in the chair,” the warden went on. “You 
see it is shaped like those wo use every day, 
except as to the back. The man to be oper- 
ated upon will sit in it just as he would sit 
in a chair anywhere. I don’t believe in a 
reclining-chair, such as there has been so 
much said about.” 


FIGHT FOR THE MURDERER’S LIFE. 209 

Gridley examined the oaken seat with 
considerable curiosity. 

The back-piece, he found, was adjustable, 
so that it could be raised or lowered to the 
required height. At a right angle with the 
back ran a rod which extended over the 
head. To the end of this a rubber cup, con- 
taining a sponge, was fastened with a spiral 
spring. Thus a motion of the head would 
not cause the cup to be displaced. The wire 
containing the current, it was explained, 
would connect with the cup from above. 

^ “What are these things called?” asked 
Gridley, indicating one of the cups through 
which the electricity passes. 

“They are electrodes,” was the answer, 
“and the other is placed on the back of the 
chair, so that it will come in contact with 
the base of the spine when the victim is in 
the chair. The wire, you understand, runs 
down to the floor just here, and so out of 
the room.” 

“The head of the condemned man,” War- 
den Durston continued, “will be held with 
strong straps, one passing about the fore- 
head and the other about the lower part of 
the face, with a cup for the chin. Another 
thong is bound about the body at the 
middle. The arms are firmly fastened to the 

14 


210 kemmlee; oe, the fatal chaie. 

arms of the chair, which, as you see, are 
about six inches wide. Then the ankles are 
fastened to the posts of the chair.” 

“Jove,” exclaimed the detective, “the 
fellow will be so securely bound that he 
can’t even move.” 

“You are right,” assented the warden, 
“and another thing, there can be no break- 
ing down at a critical moment.” 

Gridley looked about him curiously. 

“Where is the engine?” he at length 
asked. 

“The engine — the whirring machine which 
snatches the life in the twinkling oi an eye,” 
responded the warden, “is some three hun- 
dred feet away.” 

The detective’s attention was next at- 
tracted to a monster switch-board on the 
opposite wall. 

This switch-board was about ten feet long 
and four feet wide. It occupied the whole 
space between the grated windows in the 
execution-room. 


CHAPTER XXIY. 


THE EHHIHE OF DEATH — HEAEIHG THE END. 

‘‘Do you understand that? ” asked War- 
den Durston, following the direction of the 
detective’s glance. 

“ Hardly,” was the reply. “ Still, I think 
I know what those handles are for, and I’m 
pS’etty sure I see an electric button.” 

The warden nodded. 

It was really an electric button the detect- 
ive saw. Then there was something that 
looked like a steam-gauge attached to a box. 
A sort of key separated the clock-like gauge 
from another long, closed box, on the other 
side of which were the two handles Gridley 
thought he understood the use of — one being 
beyond the other, and both working on a 
pivot. 

Two wires came in through the north win- 
dow — one was connected with the first handle, 
while the other ran down the long, closed 
box. 

These were the wires from the dynamos, 
with their burden of two thousand volts of 
electricity. The wire connecting with the 
( 211 ) 


212 kemmlee; or, the fatal chaie. 

first handle was connected with another which 
ran to a second handle. 

“ This first handle,” explained the warden, 
“is the short circuit switch. The second 
lever is the fatal one which delivers the mes- 
senger of death. When the first lever is 
down, there is no danger, for then the short 
circuit is closed. When the first lever is 
opened and the second lever is thrust into 
the brass jaws meant for it, the circuit is 
closed — the victim is dead.” 

“Ah, I understand. And this little electric 
button on the left here,” asked Gridley, 
“ what is its use? ” 

“Oh, that,” replied Durston, “is simply 
to signal to the engine and dynamo-room.” 

“And this?” pointing to the gauge. 

“That clock-faced apparatus is a volt- 
meter. It is by that thing that the execu- 
tioner can tell when it is time to close the 
fatal circuit. The long box there contains a 
reducer for the volt-meter. You will notice, 
too, that there are twenty-four incandescent 
lamps, those, also, are to test the force of the 
current.” 

The detective noticed that a wire rose from 
the fatal switch to the wall and ran across 
the ceiling to a board opposite, where a chain 
was to be, where it then dangled like a half- 


THE ENGINE OF DEATH. 213 

coiled snake. The other wire, he saw, ran 
along the wall at a distance of about four 
feet from the ground, and he understood 
that all that remained to be done was to let 
down the chain and attach the wires. 

“Let me ask you one thing,” he ex- 
claimed presently, turning to the warden, 
“will the executioner himself be perfectly 
safe?” 

“Ah!” returned the other, “you are now 
putting a question that has been asked many 
^imes before. And to tell the truth, there is 
a fear expressed, even by some who profess 
to understand the business, that the execu- 
tioner may be made a victim as well as the 
murderer. For my own part, I am free to 
confess that I am somewhat nervous over the 
matter, and I propose to take every precau- 
tion. The executioner, you may be sure, 
will be pretty thoroughly encased in rub- 
ber.” 

“Kemmler, I understood you to say, has 
ho fear whatever? ” 

“His only fear is that the executioner — 
the man who will turn on the fatal current, 
you understand, may not be firm. He is 
afraid that weakness on the part of this man 
may cause him great suffering. To speak 
more correctly,” said Hurston, with a smile, 


214 kemmlee; ok, the fatal ohaie. 

‘‘that was his fear. Now, he is convinced 
that I will pull the lever, and he is quite 
content.” 

“And will you do it?” asked Gridley. 

“Ah! as to that, I don’t know; we shall 
see a little later,” was the cautious reply. 

After some further conversation, the de- 
tective thanked the warden most heartily 
for the courtesy he had shown him, and went 
away, quite satisfied that Kemmler’s days 
on earth were nearly numbered. 

But, as we already know, two days later a 
United States writ of habeas corpus was 
served on Warden Durston, and the case 
was carried to the United States Supreme 
Court on the constitutionality of the law, on 
the same grounds as those that had been 
urged in the State courts. 

We have not space tb go into the details. 
SuflBlce it to say, the New York courts were 
upheld in the final appeal, and Kemmler was 
sentenced to be killed within the week be- 
ginning August 4, 1890. 

The time passed quickly, and although all 
hope seemed at an end, still those who were 
interested in saving Kemmler’s life were not 
idle. Hints were thrown out that the con- 
demned man was insane, and, of course, they 
said it would be a shame and a disgrace to 


THE EHGINE OF DEATH. 215 

put a man to death under such circum- 
stances. 

These hints at length reached the ear of 
Dii^trict Attorney Quimby, of Buffalo, and 
sending for Gridley, the two, on the second 
day of August, started for Auburn. 

‘‘I want to satisfy myself,’’ exclaimed the 
District Attorney, by the way, ‘ ‘ as to whether 
or not he is in his right mind. I would not 
have it -on my conscience, you understand, 
to permit this execution to go on if I 
thought the man was insane. And while we 
are about it, Gridley, weTl get what infor- 
mation we can on some other points.” 

‘‘What do you particularly allude to?” 
asked the detective. 

“Why, they say that the dynamo in the 
Auburn Prison has been found to be unreli- 
able, and incapable of maintaining a high 
voltage.” 

“ Do they really say that? ” 

“Yes; and I am not wholly surprised, as 
Harold P. Brown, in a published interview, 
about the time of Kemmler’s last respite, 
said the dynamo did not work well. A bull 
was executed, and, as proof of his theory, 
that less than one thousand volts of alternat- 
ing current is sufficient to produce death, 
Mr. Brown said that, owing to a defect which 


216 kemmler; or, the fatal chair. 

lie attributed to the engine running his 
dynamo, the highest tension the current 
attained was eight hundred volts. He said 
this voltage was only maintained for a sec- 
ond, and then the current dropped to a much 
lower voltage. Mr. Brown said the defect 
could and would be remedied; but, if these 
rumors are true, it has not been.” 

“The Westinghouse electric -light people 
have claimed all along that the three dyna- 
mos bought for the State by Mr. Brown were 
defective, and not qualified to do reliable 
work in the way of executions, have they 
not?” asked Gridley. 

“Yes; I believe so. They were reported 
to be condemned machines that had been 
thrown aside by local electric-light com- 
panies.” 

“That’s all wrong, it seems to me.” 

“Yes; the State’s contract was understood 
to call for dynamos capable of giving any 
required voltage, from one thousand to two 
thousand, as the occasion might require, and 
we should have all the contract calls for. It 
is a well-known fact, however, that men have 
received one thousand volts of lalternating 
current and survived, while other men have 
been killed with currents of less intensity.” 

“ Supposing the defects you refer to are in 


THE ENGINE OF DEATH. 217 

the dynamos themselves, what then?’’ asked 
Gfridley. 

“ Why, in that case,” responded the Dis- 
trict Attorney, “electricians say it will be 
difficult to remedy them in time to execute 
Kemmler next week.” 

At length they reached Auburn, and a lit- 
tle later were with Warden Durston, Keeper 
MclSTaughton, and several other officials 
within the prison. 

So far as they could learn, on careful in- 
quiry, the dynamos were all righf. As to 
Kemmler himself, McNaughton said that, for 
some little time past, he really had been in 
a peculiar — in fact, a dreadful state of mind. 

“But, as the hours roll by,” he said, in 
conclusion, “his miserable terror is leaving 
him, and in its place is appearing a mental 
and physical condition which is far more 
pitiful than the terror which possessed 
; him up to yesterday. His mind is no longer 
possessed of a horrible fear. It is a blank, 
and he acts like a little child, both in speech 
and movements.” 

“Yes, Mr. Grridley,” said another of the 
officials, turning to the detective, “it is not 
the same William Kemmler who is now con- 
fined in the dark cell, next to the death- 
chamber, that you saw when you were here 


218 kemmler; or, the fatal chair. 

last. It is William Kemmler, the same mean 
murderer, but awfully, fearfully changed. 
The other William Kemmler was brutally 
brave and ignorantly pious. He talked of 
his death, his crime, and his hope of salva- 
tion at some throne, in some place, and at 
some hands of which he had been told, and 
which he believed in because he was so 
densely ignorant that he had not the mental 
courage to doubt it. 

“He believed blindly in what was told 
him,’’ the official continued. “Why, when 
Bill Wemple, who used to be one of the 
guards who watched him, scoffed at religion, 
and said there was no hell, nothing but a 
blank death, Kemmler would laugh. When 
our good Daniel here, the other keeper, told 
him of heaven, and God, and His mercy, 
and repeated to him with simple eloquence 
the story of the thieves on the cross, Kemm- 
ler’ s hard face would soften, his eyes would 
. glisten, and quite simply he would say: 
‘ Dan’l read this, will you? ’ He would hand 
the keeper his little pictorial Bible, and 
would listen intently to the low voice of the 
good man.” 

“That was some time ago?” said Quimby, 

. who was deeply interested. 

“Yes; that was weeks ago. Then came 


THE ENGINE OF DEATH. 


219 


the gradual breaking down, the sleepless 
nights, the awful darkness which he dreaded 
with all the horror of his heavy mind, which 
brought no rest, nothing but unconscious 
rehearsals of his brutal crime. To-day, he 
is a mental and physical wreck — a cowering, 
fear-crazed wretch, whose mind is dark, and 
whose body is weak. A poor, condemned 
wretch, with no idea of time or surround- 
ings.” 

“ There is no fear of his killing himself, I 
suppose? ’ ’ asked the District Attorney, ad- 
dressing himself to the warden. 

“Oh, no,” was the reply, “his every 
movement is watched closely- by the keepers, 
and he is not allowed to have anything with 
which he could kill himself. When he eats, 
a keeper stands very close to him; there is 
not a ghost of a chance for him to do him- 
self any harm.” 

“Well,” said Quimby, a little later, when 
they had visited the murderer and had some 
conversation with him, “ we must go now, I 
think.” 

“What is your opinion?” asked the war- 
den, as he accompanied them to the door. 

“He has changed, no doubt,” was the 
reply; “but no more, certainly, than was to 
be expected. Of one thing I am sure, men- 


220 kemmlee; ok, the fatal chair. 

tally lie is in a better condition than he was 
at the time of the trial.” 

‘‘Then you will let the law take its 
course?” 

“ Certainly.” 

“Very well,” and the warden whispered 
something in his ear. 

“All right,” nodded Quimby, “we will be 
on hand — both Gridley and myself,” and 
the door being opened, they departed. 


CHAPTER XXV. 


THE ELECTEOOUTION. 

At six o’clock and thirty-eight minutes, 
on the morning of the 6th of August, the 
door at the right of the execution-chair, 
leading to the death-chamber in Auburn 
Prison, opened, and Warden Hurston’s figure 
appeared in the doorway. 

Behind him walked a spruce-looking, 
broad-shouldered man, full-bearded, with 
carefully arranged hair clustering around his 
forehead. He was dressed in a new suit of 
clothes, a white shirt, and a black-and-white 
neck-tie. 

This was William Kemmler, who was 
about to undergo the sentence of death. 
Behind him walked Dr. W. E. Houghton 
and Chaplain Yates. 

The death-chamber was fairly well filled 
with invited guests. 

Kemmler was by far the coolest man in 
the party. He did not look about the room 
with any special degree of interest. He hes- 
itated, however, as the door was closed 
behind him and carefully locked by an 
( 221 ) 


222 kemmleb; oe, the fatal chaie. 

attendant on tlie other side, as though he 
did not know exactly what to do. 

“Give me a chair, will you?” said the 
warden. 

Someone quickly handed him a wooden 
chair, which he placed in front of him, a 
little to the right of the chair of death, and 
facing the pale, silent circle of men. 

Kemmler sat down composedly, looked 
about him, then up and down, without any 
evidence of fear or of special interest in the 
event. His face was not stolid — it was not 
indifferent. He looked, if anything, as though 
he was rather pleased at being the center of 
interest. 

Warden Durston stood at the left of the 
chair, with his hand on the back of it, and, 
almost at the moment that Kemmler took his 
seat, he began to speak in short, quick sen- 
tences. 

“Now, gentlemen,” he said, “this is 
William Kemmler. I have warned him that 
he has got to die, and if he has anything to 
say he will say it.” 

As the warden finished, Kemmler looked 
up and said, in a high-pitched voice, without 
any hesitation, and as though he had pre- 
pared himself beforehand: 

“Well, I wish everyone good-luck in this 


THE ELEOTEOCUTIOH. 223 

worldj and I think I am going to a good 
place, and the papers has been saying a lot of 
stuff that isn’t so. That’s all I have to say.” 

With the conclusion of the speech, he 
turned his back on the jury, took off his 
coat, and handed it to the warden. This 
disclosed the fact that a hole had been cut 
from the band of the trousers down, so as 
to expose the base of the spine. 

When his coat was off, Kemmler began to 
unbutton his vest. At the same time, the 
warden was drawing the interfering portion 
of his shirt through the hole in the trousers, 
and cutting it off, so as to leave the little 
surface of flesh, against which one of the 
electrodes was to press, absolutely bare. 

Warden Durston called the condemned 
man’s attention to the fact that it was not 
necessary to remove his vest, and Kemmler 
calmly buttoned it again and carefully ar- 
ranged his tie. 

‘‘Don’t hurry about this matter,” he said 
to the warden; “keep perfectly cool.” 

_ He himself was, by all odds, the coolest 
man in the room. When his tie was ar- 
ranged, he sat down in the chair of death, 
as quietly as though sitting down to dinner. 

Warden Durston stood on the right, and 
Deputy George Vieling on the left. 


224 kemmler; or, the fatal chair. 

They began immediately to adjust the 
straps around Kemmler’ s body, the con- 
demned man holding up his arms, so as to 
give them every assistance. 

When the straps had been adjusted about 
the body, the arms were fastened down, and 
then the warden leaned over and moved the 
victim’s feet, so as to bring his legs near the 
posts of the chair. While the straps were 
being arranged, Kemmler said: . 

“Take your time. Don’t be in a hurry. 
Make sure that everything’s all right.” 

“It shall be all right, Kemmler,” re- 
turned the warden, reassuringly. “You 
won’t feel it, and you may be sure I will be 
with you all through.” 

Durston now placed his hand on Kemm- 
ler’ s head and held it against the rubber 
cushion which ran down the back of the 
chair. The condemned man’s eyes were 
fixed on a point on the opposite side of 
the room. Before, they had followed the 
warden in all his movements. 

“Well,” said the victim, abruptly, and 
without moving his eyes, “I wish everybody 
good-luck;” and then — “Durston, see that 
things are all right, will you? ” 

The deputy unfastened the thumb-screws 
which held the figure “4” at the back of the 


THE ELECTEOCUTIOH. 


225 


chair in place, and began to lower it, so that 
the rubber cup which held the saturated 
sponge pressed against the top of Kemmler’s 
head. When the cup had been adjusted and 
clamped in place, Kemmler said: 

‘‘ Oh, you’d better press that down farther, 
I guess.” 

So the head-piece was undamped and 
pressed farther down. While it was being 
done, Kemmler said: 

“Well, I want to do the best I can. I 
can’t do any better than that.” 

The warden took in his hand the leather 
harness which was to be adjusted to Kemm- 
ler’ s headi It was a muzzle of broad, leather 
straps which went across the forehead and 
the chin of the victim in the chair. The top 
strap pressed down against the nose. 

As the harness was put in place. Doctor 
Spitzka, who was standing near, said, 
softly: 

“God bless you, Kemmler,” and the con- 
demned man as softly answered: “Thank 
you.” 

The switch-board had been removed to an 
adjoining room, and the door leading into 
this room was partly open -A man stood in 
the doorway. Beyond him, there were two 
other men. Which of them was to touch 
16 


226 kemmlee; or, the fatal chair. 

the lever, and make the connection with 
the chair, was not known — will never be 
known. 

The dynamo in the machine-shop was run- 
ning at good speed, and the volt-meter on 
the wall registered a little more than one 
thousand volts. 

Warden Durston turned to the assem- 
bled doctors — those immediately around the 
chair of death — and said: 

‘‘Do the doctors say it’s all right?” 

As the question was put, Doctor Fell step- 
ped forward, with a long syringe in his hand, 
and quickly, but deftly, wet the two sponges 
which were in the electrodes — one on top of 
the head, and the other at the base of the 
spine. The water which he put on them was 
impregnated with salt. Another of the doc- 
tors answered the warden’s question with a 
decided “All right,” which was echoed by 
those about him. 

“Ready?” said Durston again, and then 
— “Good-bye.” 

As he uttered his farewell, the warden 
stepped to the door, and through the open- 
ing said to the ever-to-be unknown in the 
next room: 

‘ ‘ Everything is ready. ’ ’ 

In almost immediate response, and at ex- 


THE ELECTKOOUTIOH. 227 

actly 6.43J o’clock, the electric current was 
turned on. 

There was a sudden convulsion of the 
frame in the chair. A spasm went over it 
from head to foot; but, confined as it was, 
the body moved no more than a small frac- 
tion of an inch from its resting-place. 

The twitching that the muscles of the face 
underwent gave to it, for a moment^ an ex- 
pression of pain; but no cry escaped from 
the lips, which were free to move at will. No 
sound came to suggest that consciousness 
lasted more tfi^n for an infinitesimal fraction 
of a second, beyond the calculation of the 
human mind. 

The body remained in this rigid position 
for seventeen seconds. The jury and wit- 
nesses, who had remained seated up to this 
moment, came hurriedly forward and sur- 
rounded the chair. 

There was no movement of the body be- 
yond that first convulsion. It was not a 
pleasant sight— this man, bound hand and 
foot, bound body, and even head, with the 
frame-work pressed down on the top of his 
skull, still with the evidence of death. 

Doctor McDonald held a stop-watch in his 
hand, and as^ the seconds flew by he noted 
their passage. Doctor Spitzka, too, held a 


228 kemmlee; oe, the fatal ohaie. 

stop-watch, and as the tenth second expired, 
he cried out: 

“Stop!’’ 

“Stop!” cried the voices of others about 
him. 

The warden turned to the doorway and 
called “stop” to the man at the lever. 

A quick movement of the arm and the 
electric current was switched off. 

There was a slight relaxation of the body 
in the chair, but the straps held it so firmly 
that the change in its position was almost 
imperceptible. 

‘ ‘ He’ s dead, ’ ’ said Doctor Spitzka, calmly. 

“ Yes; he’s dead,” echoed Doctor McDon- 
ald, with firm confidence. < 

The other witnesses nodded their acqui- j 
escence. 

There was no question in the mind of any- - 

one but that the stiff, upright object before I 
them was lifeless. How could it be otherwise? ' 

This was the inevitable result of what had 
been done. 

Preparation for post-mortem were being 
discussed. Doctor Batch was bending over 
the body looking at the exposed skin. Sud- 
denly he cried out sharply: 

“ Doctor McDonald, see that rupture! ” 

In a moment, two or three doctors had bent 


THE ELEOTROCUTIOH. 


229 


over and were looking where Doctor Batch 
was pointing at a little red spot on the hand 
that rested on the right arm of the chair. The 
index finger had in some way made a wound 
at the base of the thumb. There was nothing 
strange in this alone, but what was strange 
was that the little rupture was bleeding. 

‘‘ Turn the current on instantly. This man 
is not dead,” exclaimed Doctor Spitzka. 

Faces grew white and forms fell back from 
the chair. The warden sprang to the door- 
way and gave the order to turn on the cur- 
rent. « 

But the current could not be turned on. 
When th6 signal to stop had come^ the oper- 
ator had pressed the little button which gave 
the signal to the engineer to stop the dynamo, 
and hence the dynamo was almost at a stand- 
still. 

The oper^.tor sprang to the button and gave 
^ sharp, quick signal. There was a rapid re- 
sponse; but, quick as it was, it was not quick 
enough to anticipate the signs of what may 
or may not have been reviving consciousness. 

As the group of horror-stricken witnesses 
stood helplessly by — all eyes fixed on the 
chair — Kemmler’s lips began to drip saliva, 
and in a moment more his chest moved, and 
from his mouth came a heavy, stentorious 


230 kemmler; or, the fatal chair. 

sound, quickening and increasing with every 
respiration. 

This wheezing noise, half groan, which 
forced itself past the tightly closed lips, 
sounded through the still chamber with 
ghastly distinctness. Some of those present 
turned away from the sight. One of them 
lay down faint and sick. 

There were seventy-three seconds in the 
interval which elapsed between the moment 
when the first sound issued from Kemmler’ s 
lips and the response from the dynamo-room. 

It came with the same suddenness that 
had marked the first shock which passed 
through Kemmler’ s body. The sound which 
had horrified the listeners about the chair 
was cut off sharply as the body once more 
became rigid. The slimy ooze still dropped 
from the mouth and ran slowly down the 
beard, on to the gray vest. Twice, there were 
twitchings of the body as the electricians in 
the next room threw the current on and off. 

There was to be no mistake this time about 
the killing. The dynamo was run up to its 
highest speed, and again and again the full 
current of two thousand volts was sent 
through the body in the chair. 

How long it was kept in action none can 
tell. To the excited group of men about the 


THE ELECTEOCUTION. 


231 


chair it seemed an interminable time; for the 
men who stood in front of the volt-meter 
in the adjoining room and threw the switch- 
lever backward and forward, time had no 
measurement. 

As the anxious group stood silently watch- 
ing the body, there arose from it a white 
vapor, bearing with it a pungent and sicken- 
ing odor. The body was burning! 

Again there were cries to stop the current, 
and again the warden sprang to the door 
and gave the hurried order to his assistant. 

The current was stopped, and again there 
was relaxation of the body. 

There was no doubt this time that the cur- 
rent had done its work— if not well, at least 
completely. 

When all was over, one of the physicians 
turned to those present and said: 

Well, gentlemen, there is no doubt about 
one thing, the man never suffered an iota of 
pain.” 

“I hope that is true,” said Gridley to the 
State’s Attorney; “but, true or not, God 
knows I never want to witness such a sight 
again. I shan’t get over it for a year, at 
least.” 

“It was terrible,” murmured his com- 
panion. “Come, let us be off,” and so 
they hurried away. 


CHAPTER XXYL 

CONCLUSION. 

Ten days have passed, and Gilbert Grid- 
ley, finding that he is still suffering from the 
severe shock he received at the time of 
Kemmler’s execution, has taken a vacation, 
and is paying a visit to his friend, Paul 
Pinkham , in Philadelphia. 

The two are seated together in Paul’s pri- 
vate room, where, , with the aid of a fine cigar, 
Gridley has just given his professional 
brother a minute account of the affair in the 
Auburn Prison. 

‘‘And so that strange fellow is dead and 
buried at last,” says Paul, musingly, when 
he had finished. “A terrible death, and— 

“A strange burial — for such parts as were 
buried,” adds Gridley, quickly. 

“Ah! how’s that?” asks the other. 

“Why, certain parts of the body were 
pickled and divided among the doctors. 
The skull, too, was quartered, each of four 
doctors getting a section, which, of course, 
they will examine for scientific purposes. 
What was left of the remains were buried 
soon after four o’clock, on the morning of 

( 232 ) 


OONOLUSION. 


233 


the 8th of August, in the cemetery, about 
a mile from the prison. ' 

“The coffin containing the remains was 
placed in the wagon belonging to the prison. 
A convict drove it. Keeper Miller sat on the 
seat, and that was the extent of the proces- 
sion. 

“Driving rapidly by a circuitous route, 
the wagon was sent bowling to the cemetery. 
Few noticed it* and nobody knew what it 
contained. Arriving at the grave-yard, with 
the aid of two waiting grave-diggers, the 
coffin was placed in a rough box and lowered 
into its place.” 

“And 6o that is the last of the poor fel- 
low,” said Pinkham. “ Well, I am not sur- 
prised. If you remember, I prophesied a 
startling career for him.” 

“Yes; r remember it very well, and have 
often thought of what you said. Do you 
know what has become of his wife? ” 

“Ko, really, I do not. So far as I am 
aware, she has dropped completely out of 
sight. But tell me what has become of Liz- 
zie Lansing?” 

“I am glad to say she has recovered en- 
tirely from the illness caused by her disap- 
pointment and the loss of her lover, and has 
gone back to live with the Russells again. 


234 kemmlee; oe, the fatal chaie. 

But, from what I hear, I shouldn’t be sur- 
prised to learn that she had married the 
family butcher before the year is out, and I 
hope she will, for I know him to be a Very 
worthy fellow.” 

“Good for her! And Curley Crane? ” 

“He has married Clara Clinton at last, 
and taken her, her mother, their little child, 
and Tim Turner out to Colorado, where he 
has a fine position, and where, I am proud 
to inform you, he is doing well.” 

“I am delighted to hear it. And Miss 
Kate Kelley?” 

“She, too, is married, and to her old 
lover, Phil Fenton. They started some little 
time ago for their Western home, taking 
Kate’s adopted daughter, Bessie Benson, 
with them.” 

‘ ‘ Good again! May fortune attend them! ’ ’ 

“I am sure it will; for both Phil and Kate 
are in dead earnest, and little Bessie, who 
has now quite recovered from her terrible 
fall, will be their guardian angel.” 

“So far as I remember, there is now no 
one to inquire about but your Hibernian 
assistant, Mr. KilcuUen?” 

“ Oh, Mickey’ s all right. He will live and 
die in the service, and so long as he can 
startle folks with his big stories, and make 


CONCLUSION. 


235 


them believe lie is the wonder of the age, he 
will be quite happy.’’ ' 

“ And you, Gridley — what is your future 
to be?” 

“Ah, my friend, I have no choice but to 
stick to my profession for awhile; but when 
I have enough to live on, I should like to re- 
tire to some little cottage in the country, 
where I could see and hear no more of such 
affairs as the Kemmler case, and — ” 

“That’s it! that’s it, my dear fellow; let 
us both work to that end, and buy adjoining 
lots in some quiet country town and build 
our Cottages so near that we can see each 
other every day, and, forgetting the outside 
world, spend the evening of our lives to- 
gether.” 

We’ll do it, Paul!” 

And so they will. 


THE END. 




} 


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